


The Need For Transparency

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Halloween13 Mystrade, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major Character death but not quite, Mentions of PTSD, Psychic Abilities, Psychic greg lestrade, You'll see what I mean when you read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-01-06 02:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Waking up in hospital is always overrated, and after Greg gets shot, he wakes up in hospital with no memory of the event or the six months prior to it. To cap it all Sherlock and John are estranged, not talking to each other. Now there’s something funny going on. Greg is seeing things, and people, who aren’t there. Is he going mad? Are these hallucinations brought on PTSD? An uncertain future is complicated still further by the return of Sherlock’s brother, but the man’s been dead for over a year. History repeating itself? Pity that Mycroft is...not the man he was….





	1. An Uninvited Guest

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my contribution to the Mystrade AHalloween13 collection.
> 
> This one might be considered to be a bit dark. It’s a Mystrade, but not in the usual way. Some major character(s) are dead, but this is a ghostly tale, people. Who knows what may happen...?

“Oo, you Bastard.” The words were out of Greg’s mouth before he could stop them. Mycroft Holmes was sitting on his sofa, large as life. His first thought was that history was repeating itself, considering Sherlock’s elder brother had ‘died’ two years ago. Greg had been to the funeral and everything, seen firsthand how devastated Sherlock had been, not to mention how surprised he himself had been at the turnout. There were a lot of people there, all seemingly genuinely upset at the man’s passing. He had wondered at the time if perhaps they were there to assure themselves that he was actually dead, given the Iceman persona he had carefully cultivated in life. 

_Minor-position-in-the-Government-my-arse_, Greg had considered. Mycroft Holmes had shouldered much more responsibility and power than his words would have led anyone to believe, always downplaying his role, and the amount that he truly cared for his family. Greg knew different, priding himself on being allowed to see more of the caring man underneath the acerbic exterior than anyone else got to see. He had been regretful that they hadn’t been allowed more time to get to know each other properly. He figured they might have just fitted the ‘opposites attract’ label and had something more than just friends. He had considered himself Mycroft’s_ friend_, even if the man himself had not seemed to reciprocate. They had still shared an accord, of sorts, found humour in the same small events; Sherlock’s histrionics, John’s snarky retorts, Rosie’s antics. 

Now here was the man himself sitting there on Greg’s sofa, immaculately dressed in his usual city pinstripe, with matching tie and pocket square, his ever-present umbrella held nonchalantly in his left hand. He looked for all the world as though he belonged there, as if nothing had happened. To Greg, standing there in his living room clutching a mug of rapidly cooling coffee like his life depended on it, three things became immediately apparent. The most obvious was that in order to get to the living room, the man had somehow by-passed Greg's securely locked front door, not to mention walking past the kitchen where he had been making coffee without Greg having either seen or heard him. However, where Holmeses were concerned that wasn’t actually unexpected behaviour. No, there was something far, far stranger, and a lot more disconcerting. As the autumn sun came out from behind the clouds and shone in the window of the flat, its rays angled across the rug and illuminated the sofa Mycroft was sitting on. The coffee mug fell from Greg's suddenly nerveless fingers to the floor, spraying its contents across the carpet. To his confusion and horror, the man in front of him was...well, _transparent_. Greg could plainly see the pattern of the upholstery right through Mycroft’s waistcoat. Last but by no means least, Greg was thoroughly convinced that he had well and truly gone out of his mind…. 

**Six Weeks Earlier….**

The thin line of light flattened out across the small screen, and an insistent continuous beep reached the ears of every person standing around the operating table. 

“Damn it, I thought he was improving…”

“Come on, come on…Jesus, his BP’s dropping too quickly…” 

“He’s going into Ve-tach…”

"Shocking! Stand clear!"

……………………

“_Do you think he knows we’re here?”_

_“I doubt it, Brother dear. Too much damage, too much pain, too many drugs. Surely you can identify with that?”_

_“That was a low blow, Mycroft, even for you…”_

_“Merely an observation.”_

_“Will you two shut up,” Greg mumbled. “Not even my hallucinations can keep quiet.”_

_“So he does know we’re here. You were wrong.”_

“_Shut up, please,” Greg pleaded gruffly. “I’m trying to sleep.”_

_“Don’t sleep, Lestrade!” Sherlock’s voice was loud, insistent. “Mycroft, we’re losing him…”_

_“Inspector, you cannot go yet.” Mycroft’s voice was hard, sharp. “You have work to do…” _

_“Work? I don't just do what you tell me anymore. I'm trying to go quietly and you two won’t shut up and leave a body to die in peace…”_

_“Because you cannot be allowed to die just yet.” Mycroft’s voice_ _was deep and patient, almost kind. Greg missed his voice.... “It is not your time. You are needed. You have not completed your earthly tasks…”_

_“Just… leave me be… please?” Greg hated how whiney that sounded. _

_“That I am afraid we cannot do, Inspector. Gregory, you have something to finish…”_

_“Finish? What on earth have I got to finish that’s so bloody important?”_

_“Yes, that’s it, things to finish,” Sherlock insisted, urgency colouring that gorgeous baritone voice. “You have to finish what you were doing, Graham.”_

_“What was I doing?” Greg couldn’t even be bothered to correct Sherlock calling him by a different name again._

“_Protecting John,” Sherlock said, insistently. “Keeping him safe.”_

_“And little Rosamund,” Mycroft interjected. _

_“Rosie...I can’t...leave...Rosie…” Greg murmured. _

_“Yes, that’s it. Hold on to that thought, Gregory. Little Rosie. She needs you…”_

…………………

“Okay, people, I’m calling it.” The surgeon looked exhausted. “This is the third time. I think we all know it’s time to let this one go, yes?” There were tired nods of agreement all round. 

_No, don’t do that, I’m still here…_ Greg found himself gazing down on the room, at himself, unconscious on the operating table, blood everywhere._ My blood,_ he thought desperately. _Too fucking much blood… _Around him, the nurses and surgeons, shoulders slumped in defeat. Machines with continuous flat green lines on their screens. 

_No, I can’t go like this…_

_…………………_

Someone checked their watch. “18.47…” 

“Time of death then, 18.47…Someone contact the transplant team, and go talk to the relatives, we need donor permission...”

“There's a Doctor John Watson listed as next of kin, but he’s listed as a friend, not a relative.”

"Best get on to him then, fast as you can.” 

_Dammit, I am still...breathing… just… such… hard work…take a breath, and another, and keep going… keep… Fucking…going!_

_Beep………._

_Beep…….beep…….._

“What’s that?”

“Probably just bradyarrhythmia. Slight activity in the heart post-mortem isn’t unknown.”

_beep…….be-beep...be-beep...be-beep..._

“Hang on, that’s not bradyarrhythmia...Christ! We have a pulse. We actually have a pulse. What the fuck just happened? Harry?” 

“The heart’s reset itself. Blood pressure is normalising. He’s stabilising. Get another bag hooked up. Jesus, looks like this one’s not ready to go just yet.” 

“How in Heaven…?”

“Rare, but not entirely unheard of. Don’t sweat it right now. He needs us to focus.”

_Keep breathing, just like that. There’s going to be Hell to pay in the morning, but...Rosie, keep thinking about gorgeous little Rosie, and John, and Sherlock. Rosie, Sherlock, and John. Sherlock, John, and Rosie..._

Fragmented dream images haunted his oblivion; snatches of memory, half-remembered emotions, weird colours and images, people and places he had long since forgotten. Greg found himself passing through it effortlessly, walking country lanes and flying over mountains, moving miles in the blink of an eye. He saw people he knew, people he didn’t, some long dead, some living. He heard the sounds of a storm, thunder rumbling, rain hissing, a sound he had always loved. He was flying, but had no wings. He arrested someone for robbery, but they had wings and gazed at him through cats' eyes. He visited his nan, and had a nice conversation with her over tea and scones, just as he had when a teenager in the seventies. He could even taste her home-made jam and cream. She’d been dead since 1998. Nothing and everything made sense at the same time. Of course he was speaking to dead people as well as the living, anything could happen in dreams. 

Lucidity came at the price of pain. Awareness was hard won, too easily lost, drugs and injury joining forces to drag him under again and again, sleep claiming him to help him heal. Periods of awareness were short, and he was often not sure what was real and what was not. Time passed, although how much he didn’t know, he had no way of measuring it. 

**0000000**

It was always overrated, waking up in hospital. Greg surfaced sometime around midnight of the day after his dramatic return to life, and Sherlock was peering down at him, brows drawn together in a frown.

“Sh’lock, wha’ you doin’ here?”

“Very eloquent, Lestrade. I should have thought that was obvious. You nearly died. I am concerned for your welfare.”

“Oh.” _Not much to be said to that, _Greg thought. “Where’s John?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “In the chair, asleep. He’s been there since you came out of surgery. He refuses to leave.” 

“I dreamed you were dead…you sounded dead….”

“How does one _sound_ _dead_?”

“No idea…”

“Go back to sleep, Graham. You are not making sense. Rest. Get well. Time to chat later.” Greg allowed his eyes to slide closed without any further prompting, the residue of the anaesthetic pulling him back under. He didn’t even have the energy to correct Sherlock calling him the wrong name again. 

**00000000**

A long time later, Greg surfaced again to find John and a man he didn’t recognise conversing quietly. The stranger had a stethoscope draped loosely about his neck, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows and a lanyard round his neck with an ID card. It was too far away for Greg to make out the name or designation but he looked like a doctor. 

“This a private conversation or can anybody join in?” Greg rasped. John looked up, startled. 

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re...Jesus, you’re with us again.” The relief in John’s expression was...gratifying, really. Someone cared, at least. Of late, Greg had been feeling as though nobody bothered whether he lived or died. After his divorce, he lived alone, and rarely had visitors. His parents were long-since dead and he had no siblings. He occasionally went to the pub with his colleagues, and he visited with Sherlock and John but rarely outside of work. All told his social life was almost nonexistent. He did not want to admit loneliness but he knew that he was, desperately. 

“Still here,” he declared, firmly. “You okay? How’s Rosie?”

“Me? Yes, I’m...doing okay, and Rosie’s fine. More to the point, how are you feeling? You’re the one got himself shot. Again, I might add.”

“Shot?” Greg wracked his brain. For the life of him, he could not recall the events leading up to his hospitalization. “I don’t...sorry, no memory of it.” He wondered briefly why it didn’t worry him more that his memory of the episode was gone. 

“Not a surprise,” John was saying. “The bullet was a through and through to your abdominal cavity, narrowly missed anything really vital, so don’t worry over much about that, but you took a tumble down stairs as well, you’ve had quite severe concussion.” John took a deep breath. “No heroics, Greg, okay? You take things slow and easy.”

“Slow I can do. Always supposing himself leaves me alone long enough. Where is he anyway? Off chasing villains or is he at the mortuary?”

“He…” John paused, emotions chasing across his expressive face. “He’s...at home...You know him, probably busy experimenting.” John’s voice was strained. 

Greg nodded. He could tell when things were not good between the two men. It would blow over though, it always did. “I’ll be fine, John. Promise, I’ll take things easy.”

“Okay then. This is Doctor Forester, by the way.” 

The young doctor waved. “Hi there,” he said pleasantly. “Call me Harry, I’m one of Mr Jepson’s team. He’s the consultant in charge of your care.”

“I’m just going to have a word with Harry before I head off,” John said. “He’s got stuff to talk to you about and I need to go relieve Molly. She’s looking after Rosie.”

“Sure. Thanks for being here, John...” Greg watched John walk a little way off, drawing the young doctor away out of earshot so they could discuss something. He saw the doctor nodding and obviously agreeing, _so things must be okay_, Greg thought, letting his eyes fall closed, drifting.

**0000000**

“So, you’ll remember in time, or not, depending on how your brain recovers,” Doctor Forrester told him. “Don’t sweat it if you don’t. You remember your own name, and that's good.” 

“I didn’t know what date it was though,” Greg said. “I’ve lost six months at least. Will I ever get it back?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you any assurances. I’m sorry,” Dr Forrester said gently. “As I said, it depends on how your brain recovers. If you don’t remember, then please _don’t worry._ It happens. Some people don’t ever get their memories back. Some get them back piecemeal.”

“I can ask John what happened…”

“That might not be best, not just yet,” the doctor advised. “Give it time first. You should give yourself time to recover physically, time to see if things come back naturally, and time to adjust first. Some of those events could be traumatic to find out about. You should be on a more even mental keel before you face that possibility, so take things slowly, okay?”

“Okay,” Greg agreed reluctantly.

“Look, I know it’s frustrating, but try not to run before you can walk. You have physio to deal with, to get you back on your feet, and I’m concerned for your recovery. Going too fast will be detrimental to your mental health and we don’t want that.”

Greg sighed heavily. “Okay, Doctor, I’ll behave.” 

Forrester smiled. “See that you do. Honestly, I am surprised you’ve had no ill effects from your concussion. All your tests appear normal, so don’t worry. I’ll see you later, Greg. Just rest.”

The next time he woke it was dark, and visiting hours were long over. Sherlock was sitting on the end of the bed, staring at the wall.

“Hey, Sunshine, you okay there?” Sherlock glanced up and smiled.

“Hello again. How are you?”

“Aching, tired, pretty much knackered.”

“To be expected.”

“So I’m sure you’re going to tell me how you sneaked past the nurses. Visiting hours were over a long time ago.”

“Pish, Gordon, I am sure you don’t expect me to reveal my tricks of the trade.”

Greg chuckled. “So what’s with you and him then? Had a domestic?”

Sherlock shuddered. “Ugh. Such a pedestrian term. Plebeian in the extreme.”

“Yeah, well, us plebs are an unsophisticated bunch you know.”

Sherlock fixed him with a look. “For your information,” he said frostily, “John and I have not had _a domestic_. We...we are having some difficulties communicating, that is all.” 

“Okay, what did you do this time?”

“I...I risked my life, Greg.” The use of his own name made him pause. _Must be serious,_ he thought, scrutinising the younger man carefully. _He looks….worried, wary, _Greg thought.

“You’ve always done that, though,” Greg said. “Both of you. Lord knows, John’s enough of an adrenaline junkie. He accepted that in you long ago, didn’t he?” 

“Not...not completely. Not this time...” 

“He’ll come round,” Greg said, attempting reassurance, but Sherlock’s expression was bleak.

“I fear I may have gone too far, even for us, this time, Greg. You’ll understand in time.”

“Now you’re worrying me. You know John loves you, you daft git. He’ll not let you go that easily…”

“Yes, well, he may have no choice in the matter… Look, I have to go now, I’m sorry.”

“Now?”

“Prior engagement…”

“At this time in the morning?”

“I never sleep, Geoff, you know that…Neither does the rest of the world.”

Greg sighed, admitting defeat. “Better go then. You’d best not get caught here anyway.”

“You’ll be fine now, Greg. Just take things slowly…” Sherlock paused. “John will be there for you, even if I can’t be.”

It took Greg two weeks to pull round enough to even be allowed to think about leaving, and another five days before they would release him, during which time he did not see Sherlock again. Everybody was amazed at the speed with which Greg seemed to bounce back but in truth he hated hospitals which was all the motivation he required to get to a point where he would be allowed home. The sticking point was that he lived alone and the doctors were reluctant to let him go somewhere where there would be nobody to look after him. 

John visited often, even if Sherlock stayed away. _Probably having satisfied himself that I’m going to be fine, _Greg thought ruefully. It was no surprise really. Greg kept quiet about the rift between the two men, not wanting to pry where he wasn’t wanted. Theoretically it was none of his business. The two of them would work it through. Or not, depending on how unmoveable they both were. He was surprised that none of his other so-called mates visited. There was no sign of Sally, or Molly, but he decided not to sweat it, concentrating on getting fit again. 

“You could come home with me, you know?” John suggested, out of the blue. “Let me and Rosie look after you for a while.”

Greg chuckled. “Frankly, I don’t think I could manage all the stairs, never mind Sherlock’s dramatics.” Greg watched John’s expression change. “What?” 

“Greg, I’m so sorry...I forgot your memory isn’t...well, complete. We’re not...we don’t live at 221b anym...at the moment,” John corrected hastily. 

“Jesus, John, why?” John was silent for a while. 

“We...I...couldn’t stay at 221b after...well, after…” 

“You’ve properly split, haven’t you? That’s what I can’t remember.” Greg kicked himself not to have seen the signs. “Damn it all, John. It’s me should be sorry…”

“It’s okay, don’t...don’t sweat it. You’re the one who’s had a bad time. You can't remember.” 

“I...no, I can’t. That's what he meant then...Is it really over between you two?” Greg 

“Pretty much. I...the future doesn't look very bright…” 

“Damn it all, John, there must be something…”

“Only wish that were true, Greg. Look, enough about it now, please?” John pleaded. “Come home with me, let us look after you, we can talk more then.”

“John, I’m not about to disrupt yours and Rosie's lives. You can’t care for me twenty four seven, John. I won’t let you do that.”

“Don’t be daft, Greg. You won’t need monitoring 24/7 unless you do something stupid. I can care for you without impacting my life too much. Besides, Molls comes over to babysit, and she’s already said she doesn’t mind helping you too. She’s a bit sweet on you, you know.”

“Stop trying to matchmake, John. Molly is lovely but I’m too old for her.”

“Nonsense, Greg. You’re not old.” John was momentarily silenced by the loud raspberry Greg blew. The doctor rolled his eyes. “Very mature, Greg.” 

Greg only smiled. “Look, John,” he said, trying to placate the man, “I’m not going to burden you.”

“You won’t be. Greg, I owe you more than I can express, over the years. Just...let me do this for you. Look, the alternative is staying here. They’ll not let you go yet if you’re alone at home, and I know you hate hospitals… Think about it, yeah? I...I’d appreciate the company, frankly. If you don’t mind, that is?”

Greg thought about it. John was obviously willing, and obviously lonely, and he was right, Greg did hate hospitals…Besides, if he was going to work on John and Sherlock getting back together, then he wouldn’t accomplish it by removing himself from their company. “Okay then, thank you. However, I’m paying my share of food and stuff while I’m with you, okay?”

“Okay, if you insist. It’s no trouble, though, you know. You’re a mate. It’s what mates do.” He stared out the window for a while, lost in thought. When he turned back to the bed, he looked serious. “So,” he said, conversationally, trying to be casual about it, and failing dismally, “you remembered any more, about what happened?” 

“Nope, sorry, John. I’ve tried, but...I got nothing. Blank. Zip. Nada. A big fat zero.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. It’ll come back, or not, either way don’t let it worry you.”

“Trying not to. That’s what Doc Forrester said too. I remember my own name, although I had to be told what year it is, and who the prime minister is...unfortunately. I’ve retained that knowledge, but I just can’t recall the actual incident that put me in here.”

“You might never recall it, you know? Just...let it be. Sometimes your brain blanks it, if the episode is too traumatic.”

“Yeah, well, had my fill of traumatic, but I wouldn’t have thought it would have blanked it so completely. What else happened to make my brain want to do that?”

John shrugged. “Sometimes there’s no answer, Greg. You took a pretty hard whack to your head. Might not need to look further than that.”

“You know what happened, don’t you? You were there?”

“I wasn’t actually there, no, so I didn’t see what happened. Sally...You remember Sally?”

“My sergeant?”

“Yes. She was there, and she told me what happened, and honestly, from what she said, it’s awful enough but not complicated. You were chasing a criminal, you got shot, you fell downstairs, you got concussed, end of. If there’s anything else...then I’m honestly not sure what it is. There’s stuff you don’t seem to remember from before that though.” 

“Before I got shot? Like what?”

John took a deep breath. “Where does your memory actually end, Greg?” 

“I...I think it’s around a few months ago…” Greg thought back through the haze. His last memory was of sometime in summer...running after Roy Harrison, the two-bit little thug, with Sherlock hot on the guy’s heels. They had cornered him in Soho and he’d been arrested for complicity in the murder of a bookmaker in Barnes, another room-locked-from-the-inside mystery. 

“You remember...about Mycroft…?” John asked warily. 

“I remember Sherlock saying he’d died of heart failure?” John nodded agreement. “He worked himself to death or something. Didn’t they find him dead at his club in the New Year? Couple of years ago now though.”

“Something like that. Well, you remember that at least. What’s your last memory of Mary?”

“Your wife? I...um...I remember she died about eighteen months since?” John nodded. “Your Rosie’s around three now, isn’t she? How is she, by the way?”

“She’s fine. Started in nursery. Look, Greg, the memories will either return or they won’t. Either way, we’ll discuss things when you’re better. Okay?”

Greg shrugged. “Fine. I’ll just have to hope then. Look, John,” he said, biting the bullet, “about you and Sherlock…”

John tensed. “What about me and Sherlock?”

“Tell me it’s none of my business if you like but...What did he do that’s so bad you’re not talking to each other?” John choked, and ducked his head, obviously distressed. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll shut up…”

“No...no, it’s...okay. I...You…” John took a deep breath, mastering himself with difficulty, “...you don’t remember…”

“This happened _before_ I got shot, didn’t it? You and him...Bloody Hell, John, I’m sorry, I can’t remember what happened.” 

“Look, Greg, it’s okay, but we’ll discuss this later, when you are better, not before. Rosie is fine, and she’s missing Uncle Greg, so you better get your skates on, I need my babysitter back.” 

Greg chuckled. “Doubtless Mrs Hudson and Molly are both more than happy to step in.”

John allowed himself a smile. “Yeah, they are, can’t deny that.”

“Well, never mind me, if you’re not living at 221b she’ll be missing her Uncle Sherlock too...John, it _cannot_ be that bad…” John had almost crumpled up, face twisted in obvious distress.

“You have no idea,” John choked, looking away. “You can’t remember.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“John…”

“No. It’s… No, it won’t be good for you to hear the details right now. Give it time, Greg. please.”

“Then let me speak to him,” Greg offered. “He was here the other night. He told me you two were having difficulties....What?” 

“He was here?” John looked almost grey. Greg was suddenly worried for the man. He looked on the verge of collapse.

“Yeah. Came to see how I was doing…Been twice now. How do you think I know there’s a problem between you?”

“That’s…” John swallowed, looking for all the world as though he was trying not to be sick. “That’s impossible, Greg…”

Greg blinked, puzzled. “Impossible? Why? How?”

“He...he…” John just could not get the words out. 

“John,” Greg said gently, “Sherlock is upset. He says he risked his life. Thinks he’s gone too far. He hasn’t, has he?”

“Greg, stop!” John barked. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry...I...I have to go…” he made a show of checking his watch. “Picking Rosie up and I’ll be late. Look, I’ll see you in the morning…” He got up, stumbled, dashed out the door. Greg was left staring at the empty chair and frowned, wondering just what the hell had gone on between the two of them to precipitate that reaction. 

John came to call the morning of his discharge, and if he was a little wary, Greg could forgive him and tried hard not to say anything that would upset the man. Greg was on his feet by that time, albeit walking gingerly, but he was walking under his own steam. Abdominal surgery was never pleasant, but he was recovering well and left with appointments for physio and check ups, exercises to do, and instructions to follow. John took command and walked him out, hailing a taxi to take them to a house in Chalk Farm. 

The drive wasn’t long but they got stuck in traffic a couple of times. Greg let his attention wander and started out the window, trying not to feel every jolt of the taxi as the man changed gear and stopped too quickly at junctions. They stopped for a red light and Greg’s attention was taken by a man on the street corner, staring right at him. The man was obviously a retired soldier, if the medals on his chest were anything to go by, but he had an artificial leg, and he was leaning on a crutch. He did not look that old, but Greg frowned a bit at his clothes, a flat cap and blue jacket, which were somewhat outdated, faded and threadbare. The prosthetic was a bit out of date too… Greg turned away as John said something to him, and when he looked back, the man had gone. The lights changed and Greg thought nothing more of it. 

The house, a modest townhouse with steps up to the porch and a largish garden out back was impressive in a low-key way. Greg wondered where the money had come from, unless Mycroft had left John anything in his will. He himself had received a not inconsiderable sum, as the wording of the will put it, “for your undying devotion to duty in caring for my brother, Sherlock, please accept this token of my appreciation”. Greg had been rather surprised, truth to tell. It had paid some debts off and allowed him to buy a small two bed apartment in Islington without committing to a mortgage. John’s house was warm and reminded him of 221b in subtle ways. He wondered at John’s decision to move out so completely though. It looked like they’d been living here for a while. 

Molly jumped up as soon as they got there, pouring tea for them all, and fussing over Greg, making sure he was warm enough and if he was comfortable, settling him in the armchair by the fireplace while John went to check on his daughter.

“I’m fine, Molls,” Greg reassured. “It’s good to see you. Had your hands full with our little Princess, hm?”

“She’s been fine. A delight, really,” Molly said, happily. “I am glad you’re okay, Greg. I was...worried.”

“Thanks, but I am fine.” He waited while John took his bag into the spare room. “Molly, what’s this business with Sherlock and John? What did the daft git do that was so bad?”

“Oh, God, Greg. You really don’t remember, do you?” She looked pained. 

“No, I do not, and I wish someone would say something. Christ, I have no idea. My memory is a blank…”

Molly sighed. “I wish I could, Greg, but please don’t think I’m being awful but… honestly, I shouldn’t say anything. You need to come to the memories on your own. It’s not a good idea to tell you a bunch of stuff you have no recollection of. It won’t do your recovery any good.” 

“Molly…” but at that point John returned and there was no more opportunity to talk. Molly left not long after. 

“I meant to ask, why didn’t Molly come to see me in hospital?”

“That might have been me. Look, I’m sorry, Greg, but...if anyone had...well, let something slip…”

“You didn’t trust anyone not to blab, did you?” Greg huffed. “You really think anything they told me could cause me that much damage?”

“Yes, I do. Besides, when I was visiting you, either Mrs Hudson or Molly were caring for Rosie…”

“Bollocks, John. They could have found time. There’s been no sign of anyone from the Yard either. You prevented them, didn’t you? You didn’t trust them?”

“Frankly, no, I didn’t. Mrs H is a dreadful gossip, and Molly isn’t much better. Your lot have not necessarily got your best interests at heart, Greg. Look, I swear, I did..._do_ have your interests at heart.” 

“Well, you might have told me.”

“Sorry, yes, perhaps I should have explained.”

“Yes, you should. Look, I can live with this, but it’s not easy, not knowing. I feel like any minute I might be broadsided with something awful…”

“I know, and I promise, I will tell you eventually, if you don’t remember yourself, but let yourself at least pull round from this physically first.” 

Greg sighed in frustration again, but relented. He was tired, and not in the mood to discuss it right then.

The days passed and Greg got into a routine; he slept a bit late, breakfasted healthily, and did his exercises without complaint. He would walk around the small garden if it was fine, watch crap daytime telly, surf the net or sit and read in the living room, and sleep when he felt the need, which in the early days felt like too much. When John came home, they would have dinner, the three of them together, and then Uncle Greg would read to her for a while. John would then take Rosie to bed, and once she had settled, the two men might watch a movie, or channel surf for something acceptable, heading for bed around ten thirty. 

One thing Greg sensed early on about John’s house was its good feeling of warmth and welcome. John had attempted to make it seem less bare and austere than a rental place, adding nicknacks and pictures, including a few of Mary and even Sherlock, despite their rift, and some of his own family; a dark haired woman who may have been his sister, Harry, and older people who were obviously his parents. Rosie’s toys were always strewn liberally around and the place at least looked lived in. 

Rosie was a delight, keeping him distracted from worrying about his progress, or his memory loss. By the end of the first week, he was able to move between chair and kitchen and toilet, make himself tea, and jam on toast, to heat her bottle and her food, and feed her, providing he didn’t lift her up. He had to be careful with lifting anything for the first few weeks. He decided to go out toward the middle of the second week, just a walk around the corner to the High Street to buy a magazine, maybe. He had a craving for chocolate too, and perhaps he would get a small joint of meat so he could cook them all dinner. 

He made it as far as the corner of the street when he saw a woman dressed in what looked like a Victorian bustle dress walking toward him. She was obviously one of the London tour guides who dressed authentically, although it was kind of the wrong end of the year for that. She might just be someone who enjoyed wearing period gear. _Takes all sorts, after all,_ he thought. _Maybe there’s an event on at some theatre somewhere? _As he watched, she raised a hand as though hailing a taxi, but a black taxi sped by, ignoring her. Most other people were ignoring her too. Nobody stared, or took any notice at all. Then she walked straight out into the road…Cars were driving straight at her! They were bound to hit her! Greg opened his mouth to cry out, to warn her, but before he could utter a sound...she vanished. 

Greg blinked...twice...then came to himself again and shut his mouth before people started staring. He still stood there in the middle of the pavement, poleaxed. _How…? _He stared at the place where she had been._ Had she crossed the road? _There was no sign of her. He looked up and down, doubting his own eyes, but there was nothing. She had simply disappeared. 

“Are you alright, dear?” 

“Uh? Oh, yes...yes, I’m...okay. Just...not long out of hospital,” Greg stammered at the well-meaning woman who had stopped to ask if she could help. “I’m just a bit unsteady. It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She did not look convinced but she let him alone. The whole thing left him deeply unsettled, enough that he simply went home, without having visited the shops as he had wanted to. If John thought he was a bit quiet, he said nothing. 

He tried again a few days later. This time he went a different route and this time he saw nothing to worry him as he walked to the High Street. However, as he emerged from the butcher’s and turned left to go into the minimarket, he spotted a couple of children watching him from a dark narrow alleyway on the other side of the road. They never took their eyes off him as he walked the short distance between the shops. Both were dressed raggedly, with dirty faces and no shoes on their feet. His phone buzzed with a message and he glanced down at it, turning away to go into the shop. When he came out and glanced across the road the children were gone, _but so had the alleyway. _What had been a narrow way between the terraced houses had disappeared into the face of a newer building, filling a gap between two older ones. Newer was a relative term. It was probably built after the war to fill a gap created by bomb damage. Still, the alley had gone and so had the kids. For a moment, Greg stood still, puzzled, thinking that maybe it had been the angle he had been standing at, the shadow cast by the architecture maybe, but...he had definitely seen an alleyway, and two kids, and now there was no trace of either. Unsettled, he had gone back to John’s place as quickly as he could. 

After the second appearance, Greg stayed inside for a few days. Uncertainty set in, and Greg knew enough about PTSD that he felt compelled to seek help, but not from John. He had no intent to upset the man, but he did not want his friend to deal with this. He needed someone detached from it all. Although who would believe him was debatable. He decided to ask his GP for a referral to counselling. He made an appointment that afternoon.

Eventually he felt stir crazy enough that he risked venturing out again, and nearly made it to the High Street before anything odd happened. This time it was a bus. He was sure it was one of those vintage numbers you could hire for weddings, but it was...almost not there. In a whirl of dust, shouts, people suddenly screaming, Greg realised he was able to see through it as it passed within inches of where he stood at the side of the road. The car in front of him, and others near it, ought to have been write-offs, or at the very least they should have had their alarms set off. Reality returned suddenly, like switching tv channels over. Of the bus there was no sign. Shaken, Greg crossed the street and continued on home, as fast as he could, retreating to his bedroom to sit in the dark and the quiet until his heart had stopped trying to burst out of his chest and his breathing had calmed down. If these hallucinations were linked to PTSD then he needed to get something done about it, and fast. 

That night Greg couldn’t sleep. He tossed, turned and swore under his breath but rest eluded him. Tossing events around in his head was never a good idea but he couldn’t stop. Heaving a sigh, Greg threw in the towel and got up, tottering a little until his balance settled. He made his way to the kitchen, doing his best not to wake either the doctor or his little girl. 

The dawn was just lightening the sky through the kitchen window by the time Greg had a cuppa in front of him on the kitchen table. He sat thinking hard. Life was simply not right. Not only had he lost part of his memory of events and John wasn’t telling him everything. He could not remember the actual shooting that had put him in hospital in the first place and perhaps six months prior to it. And now… Sherlock wasn’t making sense, he and John had split over something, some awful thing Sherlock had done to risk his life, and nobody was telling him about. He could simply not remember the last few months and he was sure there was something really awful to find out about. Maybe the stress was causing him to see things. He needed to get home; his own home. This place, while feeling warm and welcoming, still did not feel like home. It wasn’t his home, that was why. However, he wasn’t really in a rush to go to his own place and be on his own in it. He was lonely, and not yet well, never mind being sick of his inability to remember events and worrying about what he might find out. _What’s so terrible that it might affect my mental health to learn? _

He decided to go see Sherlock, because he knew the man would at least listen to him, and possibly throw some light on the events of his missing six months. He telephoned for a taxi, not trusting himself to public transport. John would not understand why he wanted to do this, and Greg wasn’t even sure Sherlock would, but he had to tell someone… So Greg planned it out, and picked a day when John was out at work, at the clinic, and Rosie was out at nursery, knowing he could get back before Molly returned with Rosie or John got back from the clinic. He went early, knowing the man would probably not be around but willing to wait. He tried texting, but got no reply. 

He was still walking a little gingerly, his scars still tugging a little painfully now and again, but he felt able to cope with a longer journey, and the taxi took him to the Baker Street address in record time. When he knocked on the door, Mrs Hudson was surprised but greeted him warmly.

“How are you, Inspector? You do look a bit...well, peeky, if I may say so. Are you alright?”

“Not really, no. Just out of hospital after all.”

“So I understand. Come inside, out of the cold. Are you feeling well enough to be out?”

“I’m okay. It’s been a few weeks now. I thought John would have told you…I’m on my feet...but only just.”

“John didn’t tell me, Sherlock did. John’s not been here since…” She paused. “By the time Sherlock told me, you’d already left the hospital.” She sighed. “I’m not pleased with either of them. I would have visited, had I known. You must have felt nobody cared.”

“Oh, Sherlock came, and so did John, but they kind of remained apart. Sad, really. Not seen Sherlock since.”

“Sherlock tells me you’ve lost quite a bit of your memory, too, dear. You’re not eating properly either, I’ll bet.”

“I’ve not much of an appetite just yet, but physically I am progressing well, far as the doctors are concerned anyway. I’ve been to all my appointments and I’m not forgetting my meds. Anyway, I thought I would catch up with you both.”

“I see.” She looked at him for a long moment in silence. “Well, dear, when you’re done with himself, come to me for some lunch,” she said. “I insist.”

He smiled. “Well, I don’t know how long I’ll be…” The lady frowned, but said nothing. “If I’ve time, I’ll be happy to have lunch with you. I know he and John are not communicating very well at the moment.”

Mrs Hudson stared at him thoughtfully. “He and John are not communicating at all, but you understand,” she said, gently. “You can see where things have gone wrong.” 

“Well...hope so. I...think it was touch and go when I was in surgery...John’s not saying anything but I got the hint that my heart stopped more than once.”

“Oh, my goodness.” She peered at him more closely. “Do you know how many times, dear?”

If Greg thought it was an odd question, he kept it to himself. “They didn’t tell me, but I snuck a peek at my records once and I think it recorded three attempts to revive me.”

“Gracious. Three times?”

“Apparently.”

“Changes you,” she said, sagely. “That kind of experience. Three is a rather interesting number too. Magical, in its own way. A lot of things happen in threes. Are you a religious man, Inspector?”

“It’s Greg, Mrs Hudson, and I guess you could say yes and no, I’m not a church goer but I do think there’s more out there than we can explain. I think I have something akin to a faith, but not sure what in.”

“Well, I think you’ll find a lot has changed for you, I shouldn’t wonder. Maybe…” She looked hard at him for a moment, then nodded. “You’ll learn soon. Go on, go upstairs.”

“Well, one thing I do know, life is too short. Those two need to understand that as well. They need to settle their differences before it’s too late.” Before she could say more, he turned to go. Walking upstairs was a bit of a chore but he made himself do it, slowly. 

“Do get a move on, Lestrade,” came the bored voice from above. 

When he got there, Sherlock was sprawled along the couch, looking dramatic. “Afternoon, Sherlock. How are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” came the enigmatic reply. “More to the point, you are forcing yourself to do too much too soon. Kindly do not be more of an idiot than you ordinarily are. So, to what do I owe this visit?” 

“You and John. He seems pretty cut up about this, Sherlock. What did you do?”

“I told you.”

Greg sighed. “Give me strength,” he muttered. “Look, Sherlock, you and he need to sort this out. He’s cut up about you, he’s lost without his detective.”

“I know.” Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet. “Look, Lestrade,” Sherlock rose and drifted across to the window. The sun was bright in the late autumn afternoon, the glare catching Greg’s eyes and making him squint a little. For a moment, it looked as though he could see straight through the billowing folds of Sherlock’s blue robe, and then the effect disappeared as the clouds rolled across the sun, changing the light once more. “There are aspects of this situation that you do not yet understand,” Sherlock declared. “Until you do, there will be no resolving this. John has to want to see me, and at present he does not. He thinks I am reckless, careless, and, in his opinion, those traits show that ultimately, I never loved him…”

“That’s bollocks,” Greg retorted.

“On the contrary, it could be argued that my recklessness does show that I do not put him first. I love him a great deal, but in truth, I perhaps place Rosie higher. What I did, I did to protect her, and ultimately John, and I managed that. The child is safe and loved. It would have broken him to lose her as well. I couldn’t have that happen. Besides, when I vowed to protect them, I included their child. I failed with Mary, I was not about to fail concerning her daughter.”

“He seemed pretty incredulous when I told him you’d visited me in hospital.”

“What did he say?”

“Just told me it was impossible, as though he was about to give you an alibi for murder.”

Sherlock grimaced a smile. “You do not know how close you are,” he replied. “Greg, there is something you should know about me. I am not the man I was…”

“Nope, I know. I once said you were a great man, you know, but honestly, you’ve turned into a good one too. You’re not as sociopathic as you want to make folks believe. You’ve changed, Sunshine. For the better, in my humble opinion.”

“That wasn’t my point, but you will have to reach certain conclusions on your own. Some things need to be learned at the appropriate time and you are not quite there yet. You have changed too, but you have not yet come to that realisation.”

“Sherlock, I came to see you because…”

“You’ve been seeing things that have made you question your judgement,” Sherlock said, hands steepled beneath his chin in that gesture Greg knew so well. “You have seen things you cannot explain.”

“How did you…?”

“Your visions are real, Greg. Don’t doubt your judgement. I did that once and it was a mistake. When all about you makes no sense, you have to examine what you are seeing and examine the potential reasons. One, you are going mad. Two, your eyes are playing tricks on you for some reason. Three, you really are seeing incorporeal beings. What do you feel is the most likely?”

“One or two. I’m going nuts or something is making me see these people…”

“PTSD? You suspect it. Brought on by trauma.” 

Greg nodded. “Well, hallucinations are common in cases of Post Traumatic Stress.”

“So says the armchair psychologist.” 

“Shut it, you. I googled it.”

“You did not ask John?”

“No, of course not. I can’t burden him with this as well…”

“You would not be burdening him, Lestrade. You are his friend, and he is yours. He wants to help you.”

“So are you and he’s not talking to you any more. Look, I can see him every day, see his pain. He’s exhausted. It’s taking its toll on him. I can’t add this on top.” 

“Why are you so convinced it is PTSD?”

“What else can it be?”

“You really could be seeing ghosts.”

“Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Are you serious? That’s...crazy. That’s what it is…”

“Oh, come on, Greg. Why can you not believe you are seeing spirits?”

“Because. I’m not Derek Acorah.”

“No, you are not. Man’s a charlatan. The only spirits he can communicate with are those you find in a whisky bottle.” 

“That’s a bit harsh...He’s brought comfort to many…”

Sherlock huffed irritably. “There are genuine psychics out there, Graham. And there are spirits. Open your heart a little more, and go talk to Mrs Hudson.” He grinned. “Things are about to become interesting, Lestrade. The game is on. See yourself out.” He smiled, and disappeared into his bedroom with a swirl of his dressing gown. 

“So,” Mrs Hudson said as Greg came downstairs again. “You talked to him?”

“Yes, I did, although he’s making no sense again.”

She smiled. “That’s our Sherlock. He says wise words but never in the proper order…” She went to her door. “Come for lunch. I made sandwiches…”

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson, this is really appreciated.”

“Not at all, Dear. You need to look after yourself, especially while you’re getting better.” She pushed a plate of sandwiches toward him and watched while he took one and bit into it, humming appreciatively. Buttering scones, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, assessing. There was something different about him, she knew, his aura had changed. Where once it had been slightly dull, there was a new brightness, a clarity about it. She smiled and pushed the plate of scones toward him.

“What are you trying to do, fatten me up?”

She giggled. “Why, Inspector, are you accusing me of bribery?”

“I doubt that would work, Mrs Hudson, surely?”

“Call me Martha, dear, and no, it wouldn’t. So...about Sherlock…”

“He’s upset, isn’t he?”

“He’s certainly lost, Dear. You...really don’t remember, do you?”

“John tells me I probably won’t remember. I’ve blocked being shot, and some months before that. I seriously cannot remember them breaking up.” 

“You know about Sherlock’s brother?”

“I remember when he told me about Mycroft, and I remember what happened to Mary too, just...nothing since the beginning of summer.”

“Well, don’t fret if it doesn’t come back, but...if it does...be prepared….”

“Prepared for what?”

“Possibly a shock, dear. I mean, six months is a long time, and a lot of memory to lose.” 

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Greg took a scone and put some jam and cream on it. The first bite of cool cream, sweet home-made jam, and crumbly butter pastry in his mouth was bliss. He moaned softly. “Dear Heaven, Mrs H, that is amazing. So much better than hospital food.” 

“Thank you, Dear,” the lady said with a smile. “I’ll wrap some up for you to take home. Rosie likes my scones.”

**0000000**

“Where the Fuck have you been?” John was home early it seemed, and he was in full Captain Watson mode, not willing to take no for an answer.

“Something wrong, John?” Greg decided to play it nonchalantly. 

“You’ve been gone all morning, it seems. What? Waited while my back was turned? Where were you? Why didn’t you leave a note?”

“One, because you were at work, and would still have been if you’d stuck to what you told me. Two, I’m back well before Molly returns with Rosie, as I had planned, and three, what business is it of yours where I go?”

“You’re not ready to go gadding about London on your own, that’s what. Christ, what if you’d come over faint?”

“I would have fainted?” Greg ignored John’s black look. “What is wrong, John? Really? I’m fine. I’ve been on my feet for a week, I’ve been going out to the shops regularly now, and I took a taxi, I didn’t risk public transport.”

“So where…?”

“John,” Greg interrupted, “since when do I have to clear my movements with you? I went to an appointment…”

“What appointment? It’s not in the calendar.”

“I got a reminder on text, it’s one I forgot.”

“Physio is the day after tomorrow, so it cannot be that…”

“John? It was counselling if you must know,” he blagged.

“Counselling?”

“Look, I...I know I need help, John. I am not about to burden you with what’s going on in my head, you do not need that, not while you’ve obviously got stuff of your own going on. Besides, you cannot be my counsellor and remain objective.” 

“Greg, I will gladly listen if you need to talk…”

“I need a stranger, okay? I don’t feel comfortable talking to you about….certain things.”

John sighed. “Okay, okay, if you’re happy with that. Far be it from me to get in the way.” 

There was a slight snark behind the words and Greg wondered if he were reading too much into it. “I’m sorry, John. I...look, I think maybe I should be heading back to my own place soon…”

“Greg, there’s no need to... well, to leave so soon. I’m sorry, I’m just...worried, I guess. Don’t want to lose you too.”

“You haven’t lost me, John.”

“Three times, Greg. You died three times on the table. That’s three times too many. I...can’t lose you too…” _And there it is, _Greg thought. John was scared to lose yet another friend. Gratifying, but they weren’t partners. _Lost me too, _Greg wondered. Did he really think he had lost Sherlock for good?

“You haven’t lost me, either. I’m still here. Now, lets order take-out, hm?”

Greg insisted he go back to his place the following week. He was improving every day, he knew. But. He wanted to be back in his own flat, his own space. He also wanted to get his head around what to do about Sherlock and John. It was evident John was suffering without Sherlock. Rosie was missing him too, but John wouldn’t even talk about him. Things felt rather strange. 

"Look, I've heard with PTSD you can have hallucinations…"

"It's a fairly common occurrence, yes. Why, have you experienced any?" Greg was uncomfortably aware that his doctor had sharpened her attention. He laughed a little uncertainly. 

"No...just...I was doing some research on it...on the net, you know, and hallucinations are supposedly one of the symptoms," he blagged. "I just...I don't really want any, sounds horrible to be honest, but I wanted to check out the accuracy with you. What form can they take, do you know?"

"People report lots of things…" She shrugged. "I’m not an expert by any means. That’s why we refer people to therapists, but I know some people have reported seeing swirling colours, some see relatives or friends they've lost…" 

"Okay then...how do these things manifest...I mean...when and where?"

"Anywhere. Out in the street, at home, at night, during daytime, there doesn't seem to be a pattern. There are reports of hearing noises too, and smells. It's always very real to the person experiencing it."

"So what's the difference between that and flashbacks? Do you know?"

"Flashbacks are memories, strong ones, that feel like you're reliving them. Hallucinations are seeing things that are not physically there. Both incidences can involve your other senses too, you can hear or smell...it's your brain tricking you. Delusions are another thing you can experience, being convinced that something is real or true, when it isn't." _Am I seeing things that aren't there?_ Greg wasn’t honestly sure. They were definitely not flashbacks but they didn't quite seem to be hallucinations either. “Anyway,” his doctor said, “let’s get back on track. Would you still like me to refer you to a counsellor? It might take a while, there’s a waiting list. In the meantime, why don't you try through your work? They have specific counselling services for Met police, don’t they?” 

Greg nodded. “I suppose I could, yes.” 

He left the doctor’s feeling a bit frustrated. He was no further forward in learning about what he was seeing, but he knew it probably wouldn’t be received positively by a therapist. When he eventually got to see someone, that is, because it would be at least a few weeks. 

A week went by. Greg found he had good days and bad days. He went to physio, he called on John and Rosie, he found himself gazing down from a bridge at the sluggish water running beneath, wondering… _Is it worth it? Is it worth the struggle?_ He only spent a few minutes wondering, never really serious, although he was tired, and fed up, sad too. He mourned his lost memories. He mourned lost people; Mycroft, Mary, his mum and dad. As the days passed, Greg fretted a lot over what he was missing. Nothing new came back to him. He tried to remember what had befallen Sherlock and John but there was a big fat blank where his memories should have been. Time was passing and yet there was seemingly no change. He felt frustrated, but knew there would be no rushing things. His life had changed, and he had to accept it and move forward. Or not, as the case may be.

Returning from visiting John one evening, Greg paused on the platform of the Northern Line, thoughts drifting to what would happen if he just stepped off the platform. He ended up in the middle of a small green space that announced itself as Paradise Park, miles from the tube and still a good walk away from his digs. _At least, my mind wants to be sure I’m safe_, he thought. It had happened more than once over the last week, vague thoughts and wonderings about ending it all, and then he would find himself in a green space, safe and breathing and well away from anywhere dangerous. It was almost like he wasn’t in complete control of his own destiny, and he wasn’t actually sure what to think about that. He knew in his own mind he wasn't serious about committing suicide, he was just… considering. It was almost as if something was deliberately diverting him….

**00000000**

When he got home that evening, he locked his door, shed his coat, and went to make himself a coffee, shivering in the cold air of the flat. Heating was on, but he shivered anyway. He clutched the coffee mug to his chest, its warmth seeping through his jumper, and walked into his lounge. To find a dead man sitting on his sofa...

“Oo, you Bastard!” he began, confused and firmly convinced Mycroft had just pulled the same stunt Sherlock had pulled years before, returning as he had, large as life, from two years spent dismantling Moriarty’s network of criminality. The man turned to look at him, which is when the sun shafted through the room, and illuminated more than just the stripes on the rug. 

“Bollocks!” he swore at the mess on the carpet, coffee everywhere. Mycroft was looking at him, somewhat amused. 

“Um…” he began, unsure how you address an apparition, never mind one so well put-together. “Are you…er… you comfortable there?”

His ghostly guest regarded Greg with interest. “Comfortable is a little irrelevant in my case, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Well, s’polite thing to ask…” Greg defended, retrieving the mug from the floor. 

“And you, Gregory Jonathan Lestrade, are unfailingly polite to your guests,” Mycroft said, in that well-modulated accent, utterly English. He smiled. Greg found himself thinking that it was a nice smile; genuine, kind, somewhat wistful. “As far as it goes, I am quite comfortable, thank you. Do take a seat. There is something I need to talk to you about.”

“Shouldn’t that be my line? After all, you’re in my house.” 

“Perhaps. Do forgive the unusual circumstances. I had to improvise.”

“Quite alright,” Greg found himself saying. “I...erm...sorry, I’m not really expecting visitors. The place is a mess…” That earned an amused smile. 

“As I believe some people were wont to say, ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’? It is not, in the Grand Ineffable Scheme of Things, important for your flat to be tidy. A detail only. Your sentiment is duly noted, and appreciated, but honestly, there is no need to worry. I think I am probably beyond such petty concerns these days.” The..._ghost_ regarded the end of his umbrella thoughtfully. “If I may make an observation, you seem remarkably calm about this.”

Greg shrugged. _Frankly I have no idea why I am taking this so well either._ He had a ghost, in his living room, sitting on his sofa, large as life, talking to him, for Fuck’s sake. He was already nine tenths convinced that he was going bonkers, hallucinating.

“Maybe I’m dreaming,” he suggested. “Any minute now I’ll wake up, maybe suffering the after effects of whatever I drank last night. No doubt there’ll be time to freak out later,” he said reasonably. “Besides, not as if I don’t recognise you. Although we didn’t know each other well.” 

“Forgive me, but you don’t seem to be the sort to _freak out_, as it were, bar your initial shock.”

“Well, I’m a copper. For a lot of years, I might add. Seen more‘n my fair share of weirdness there.” 

The man raised his eyebrows eloquently. “Quite,” he agreed. 

“I’m also on some rather good painkillers,” Greg pointed out. “So it’s also possible you’re an hallucination, brought on either by the drugs or by the trauma.” His guest smiled at that, and nodded. 

“I do believe it is not usual to hold a conversation with one’s hallucinations, although I am not an authority on the subject. Do forgive me still further,” he said formally. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am your spirit guide…”


	2. Not a Lot of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds out why his ghostly visitor is there, and doesn't know what to make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-ed by the lovely trillian_jdc  
Thank you so much for the read over.

Greg stared at the apparition in front of him. "Not my Guardian Angel then?"

"I cannot lay claim to such power, no. I’m your _Spirit Guide, _not your Guardian Angel."

“So, you mean you’re like one of those weird dead people that guide psychics?”

“Weird?” Mycroft blinked. “I’m not _weird,_ Inspector,” he said, slightly scandalised. 

“Yeah, well...that’s relative. This whole situation is weird. Every psychic I ever met was a bit weird."

"And how many have you met?"

"Not many," Greg answered. "You may not have noticed, but the police don’t have a great opinion of them. Can't believe you would have either, when you were alive. You and Sherlock, you're all about logic and science, not the supernatural." Greg shrugged. “Still remember Baskerville, you know.”

“Baskerville was definitely not a case of the supernatural, that’s why; nothing more than chemical fumes, a rogue pet, and suggestibility.”

“It was a bit more complex than that. A rogue scientist in a top secret military facility. Would have made a good movie.”

“Heaven forbid, Gregory. It would have made a terrible movie. So many cliches.”

“Yeah, well, anyway...case in point, you and Sherlock believe in reasoning and intellect, not the paranormal. You’re more Sky at Night than X-Files; fact rather than fiction.”

Mycroft nodded. “The police have no time for amateurs or charlatans, Gregory, and neither would I. However, I am fairly certain that you are neither.”

“That remains to be seen.” Greg ran a distracted hand through his hair, mussing the strands. “Fact is, you'd have laughed this out of existence, when you were alive." _Was Mycroft looking a little uncomfortable_? 

“What do you know of my passing?" he said suddenly.

"What?_" That came out of left field._

"My death, Gregory."

Greg frowned. "Not a lot, to be honest. Sherlock told me you’d had a heart attack. He said you'd worked yourself to death and died in your office. Death by Bureaucracy, I think that was the way he put it.”

“That was the official line. Anthea deemed it believable, and it seems to have worked. Sherlock and my parents were given the less shocking reason for my demise."

“Oh? So what really happened?”

“I was shot.”

“Shot? How? Where?”

“Long range sniper. Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t feel anything. It was remarkably quick and clean. One moment I was alighting from my car, looking forward to an evening at my club, the next I was dead. A pity really.”

Greg looked incredulous. “That sounds like a bit of an understatement.”

Mycroft sighed. “I was shot in the head, Gregory. The pity of it is that I had left my brain to the Royal Society, and there was not much left for me to leave them. Had I been shot in the heart, well, there might not have been much of a target but at least my brain would have been intact. That was the reason for the closed coffin at my funeral, they used the excuse that my brain had been donated to hide the fact of a neat but very obvious bullet hole in my skull. Otherwise it wouldn't have taken Sherlock's powers of deduction to see exactly how I died."

“That’s…” For a moment, Greg was lost for words. The exit wound from a head shot like that would have been massively difficult to hide. The tragedy of it struck him, and he felt himself tear up, recalling the bleakness in Sherlock’s eyes as he had delivered the news of his brother's demise, the utter helplessness Greg had felt for the lad, not knowing what to do or say. Sherlock hadn't been allowed to even see his brother. Anthea had identified the body so Sherlock hadn't been required. The usual platitudes would not have worked, nor would sympathy. Greg knew that Mycroft, for all their love-hate relationship, had always been there for his little brother. _Thank God,_ Greg thought, _that John Watson had been on the scene by that point in Sherlock’s life_. There had been ample distraction for the detective with his adoptive daughter and her father in the two years since he had lost his brother. Life had gone on… but not for the elder Holmes. Now, it seemed, Sherlock was alone again. Greg pulled himself together with difficulty.

"Why not tell them the truth though?" he asked. "I mean, were they not under threat as well?"

"Anthea deemed it necessary to maintain secrecy while it was investigated. Had Sherlock known...God knows what he would have done."

"But even so, would he not have been an asset to the investigation?"

"It was a sensitive matter, an internal investigation. Anthea discreetly doubled their security, but it was an old rival of mine, settling an old score. I knew there was a risk, but…" Mycroft shrugged, "he got to me."

"Then why tell me?"

"Because no one else has that information. It may go some way to proving to you that your situation is real."

"No witnesses?"

"It was very late."

"Your driver?"

"Instructed to remain silent on the matter. A loyal employee."

"And you're trusting me not to tell Sherlock."

Mycroft paused, gazed at him for a moment, and then glanced away, pensively. "Sherlock now knows," he admitted gently. "The point is, you did not, and you can check…"

"How? I can't just call Anthea and tell her I know how you died. She'll either have me sectioned or locked up and then throw away the key! You'll have to forgive me, but I’m still expecting to wake up with a massive hangover any moment…far as I remember, I'm only just back from a doctor's appointment, not a binge session at my local...”

“Gregory, you are not drunk. A little emotionally unstable, perhaps, but not drunk. Neither are you going mad, which has been on your mind lately...”

“How do you know that? Jesus, listen to me...You're a ghost...”

“Gregory, credit me with some intelligence. I am dead. There are things I am privy to that you do not yet understand. However, the fact that I have observed you contemplating jumping into the Thames or under an underground train more than once in the last week just confirms my diagnosis."

"I haven't…!"

"You cannot deny that it has crossed your mind," Mycroft said gently. "I have observed the nuances of your expressions. You have wondered what it would be like, who would miss you, if anyone would care. Now, while I understand why you wanted to leave John Watson’s care, since returning here you are not sleeping well, you are forgetting to eat, and you are not socialising. You are not seeing many people at all. In short you are lonely, depressed, and—_possibly_—suicidal. The time is past that I intervene. If I..._nudged_ you a little, away from your intended action, then I make no apologies."

"That was you?"

"Yes, it was."

"Why bother? I mean, if I was dead, I would join you, wouldn't I? Well, couldn't I?"

"Yes, Gregory. You could." The ghost's reticence was noticeable.

"But…?"

"But...you are alive, and so are John and Rosie and…" Mycroft paused, reluctantly. 

“And?”

“There is a task I need you to complete. For that, I need you breathing.”

"This is bollocks, Mycroft. I don't know what to believe any more. It's all very well giving me something no one else knows, but if this is me dreaming, then that's null and void. Look, Myc, it doesn’t matter. No matter what you tell me, I won't be convinced that I'm not dreaming it. How can I? You could fetch another spirit to chat to me, that could just be my imagination. You can tell me something nobody else knows, but I'm probably just dreaming all this anyway. You know what? I'm most likely in a coma, and I'm not going to wake up! Or you’re an hallucination; you're a figment of my imagination and I’m suffering PTSD…" Greg’s voice was rising, anger and fear penetrating his normal easy-going manner. 

"Gregory!" At the ghost's sharp tone, Greg stopped speaking, and swallowed hard. Panic was threatening, and he didn't feel very good.

"Gregory, calm down, please. Now listen to me," Mycroft said gently. "Alright, I concede to the fact that it will be hard to convince you if you have formed such an implacable mindset, however…"

"However?"

"Yes, _however_, all I am asking you to do is to open your mind to the possibilities. Yes, there is always the possibility that your body may still be in the hospital, or on the operating table, or even on the staircase where you were shot. This may all be happening in your head. Those drugs you spoke of have perhaps addled your brain. Time has no meaning in dreams, after all. How many times have you dreamed of actions that take hours only to wake to find it has taken mere minutes?”

“And the other possibilities?"

"That this is real. I really am your spirit guide, and you are now equipped with psychic skills."

"That it? Either I'm in a coma, dreaming, or this really is happening?"

"You could be in an alternate universe. This might be, in essence, a different version of you." 

"Okay, that's less believable that the dream option."

"There are many possibilities, Gregory, but my point being, what does it matter? You are experiencing this right now. This is your reality. I suggest you try trusting me, even if you do not believe it?" 

"If it's a dream…" Greg looked distressed.

"If it's a dream?" Mycroft encouraged. 

"It could just...vanish. I might get used to this, I might get comfortable...for it all to just...go, and I'll wake up, and you'll be gone again." Greg took a shaky breath. "Dunno if I could stand that all over again. I already can't remember the last six months of my life. I don't need to find out this isn't real too!"

“Gregory, you are a practical man. At present, do you have any other options?”

“What do you mean?”

“Here and now, you are talking to me, and there is no option to wake up, or anything else for that matter. Regardless of any potential future, this is your current reality. How you deal with that is up to you, but if it were me, I would embrace it, at least until I were given another option.”

Greg took a deep breath. “So I can go nuts in my dream or my reality or whatever this is, or I can accept it, and see what happens? You know, I’m not sure the Mycroft Holmes I knew would have advised me like that.”

“I am not the Mycroft Holmes you knew,” Mycroft admitted. “While I am in essence still Sherlock’s brother, while my form is recognisable to you as Mycroft Holmes, I am not quite the same man anymore. I am...how shall I put this in terms you might understand…?”

“Oi, not as stupid as Sherlock makes out, you know. Detective _Chief _Inspector speaking. Didn’t get to where I am today by being an idiot, although considering I listened to your brother, I’m no longer completely sure about that…”

“My little brother is wrong to call you stupid, Inspector. Although in his terms, most of the rest of the world is. I merely referred to the fact that our worlds now follow distinctly different paths and explaining how it works in terms you can relate to may be problematic.”

“Okay, so, in words of one syllable then?”

“I am confident that you can more than adequately understand what I am about to say to you if structured in words that contain more syllables than just a singular example.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“I merely need to structure it in terms that you will be able to comprehend, given your current parameters. While I am recognisably Mycroft Holmes, I am merely the energy signature of that human being…"

"Like a soul, you mean?"

"In a way, although that does not encompass it all."

"You are the intellect, not the biology." _Did the man look impressed by that?_

"If that description is acceptable to you, it will suffice."

"Anything changed? I mean, is there any difference to the living version?'

"My outlook, I suppose. I no longer see the universe through human eyes. I no longer need food or drink to sustain me. I do not breathe in the conventional sense. I do not sleep. No one else will perceive me as you can. That might be problematic. For instance, time is a construct I no longer require, or I didn't until I was sent back…"

"So...why are you here, exactly?"

"I believe I was quite clear. You require a guide, and I am it." 

"Exactly what do I need a guide for? I know you keep saying I’m psychic, but are you my teacher?"

Mycroft blinked, looking slightly puzzled. "In a manner of speaking. Your new skills do require guidance, an interface if you will."

”Interface? You make it sound like an IT issue."

"In a way, I suppose it is. Communication is the issue after all."

"Is it?"

"Of course," Mycroft said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "After all, your world and mine are vastly different. Communication between beings from such vastly different existences could be problematic. If I simply left you to find things out on your own it could take time we do not currently possess…”

“About that,” Greg said. ”There’s something you want me to do. You need me breathing you said.” Mycroft regarded him with such a familiar Holmesian look that he couldn’t help but smile. “Why? What's so urgent?"

"There is a necessary task we need to accomplish within a certain timeframe.”

"Thought you said that time didn't work the same way where you've come back from."

"It doesn't. That does not mean that you have time to waste in the here and now, Gregory."

“Look, Mycroft, must you call me that?”

“What? Gregory is your name, is it not?”

"It'll do, but the only person who called me that was my mum and that was only when I was in trouble."

Mycroft smiled. "So, _Gregory_, were you often in trouble?"

"Tried not to be. Mum had a hell of a temper. I'd find myself grounded for weeks."

"Well, do try to behave now, please." Mycroft stood and walked toward him. Greg took an involuntary step back as the apparition approached. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Please, Gregory. You look as though you expect me to possess you…”

“I...um...well… Can you do that? And that's rich, seeing as how you're the one talking about communication. What are you about to do?”

“I was about to connect with you. Hold your hand out.” 

Warily, and frowning the whole time, Greg extended a hand, palm up. Mycroft reached to take it in his. Greg was startled at the warmth of the ghostly fingers that wrapped themselves around his own. He felt a curious tingle, a sudden shock, and Mycroft was drawing his hand back as if burnt. 

“Great Heavens! You… Gregory…” It was mycroft’s turn to stammer. “Why on earth did you not reveal this?” he said accusingly.

“Uh? Reveal what exactly?” Greg was confused. “I felt a tingle…”

“Tingle? Good God, Gregory, that was more than a _tingle…_”

“Well, what do you call it then?”

“This is...curious. I confess I am somewhat surprised. I had no idea.”

“No idea of what? Stop talking in riddles, please. I am frankly sick of people _not_ telling me what happened to me in the last six months. They’re hiding something, I know they are. Now I've got this weird stuff happening to me, you've appeared, and I have no clue what’s going on. Mrs Hudson is convinced I’ll find out on my own but I’m in the dark…"

Mycroft eyed him curiously. “Are you telling me you _really_ have no idea how powerful you are?” Greg opened his mouth to protest but Mycroft held up a hand. “Tell me, exactly what kind of.._.weird_ things have you had happen to you? Describe them in detail, please.”

“I keep seeing...well, odd stuff… Hang on, if you've seen my expressions, you've admitted to diverting me, so that means you've followed me, which is not at all creepy, by the way…" Mycroft seemed not to rise to the sarcasm. "How do you not know what I've been seeing?"

“Because I have not been with you all the time. You and I have...a link, if you will, but we are not...not synchronised, yet. For the want of a better description, I have a 6th sense where you are concerned. It flags up if I sense you are about to do something inadvisable."

"You sure you're not my Guardian Angel?"

"Nothing about me is angelic, Gregory. I am still concerned with your welfare however." Mycroft fixed him with a curious look. "So what exactly have you seen?”

“Odd stuff, really. I saw two kids dressed strangely, standing in an alleyway. Ragged old-fashioned clothing, dirty, and they were watching me."

"How did you know they were old fashioned?"

"Um...not sure. Like in old photos, you know? I've seen old pictures on the net, _London then and now,_ that kind of thing. They looked like something from a Dickens novel, like Tiny Tim out of A Christmas Carol. Nobody else seemed to see them. It was creepy. My phone pinged a text alert, and when I looked up from checking it, they were gone, but so was the bloody alleyway. I saw the ghost of a street? Seriously?"

"Buildings have their presences too," Mycroft said, matter-of-factly. "They leave their pattern behind in the aether."

"They do?" Greg was surprised. 

"Assuredly. So, what else have you seen?"

"I know I saw someone in Victorian costume the other day, just walking down the street. Nobody seemed to notice her. I assumed she was one of those costumed tour guides but it’s the wrong time of the year for that really, and I never thought anything to it. She raised her hand...like she was hailing a cab, but a black cab went by her and ignored her. Then she…” Greg paused. Remembering the woman who had walked into the road, right in front of a car. He remembered almost crying out and how she had just disappeared.

“Gregory?” 

“Sorry, yes?” Greg snapped out of his daze. “I...she…”

“What exactly did you see?”

“She raised her hand, walked into the road, right in front of a car, and I thought, Jesus, that car can’t miss, he has to have seen her, but...she just…” He swallowed. “She vanished. The driver acted as if he hadn’t seen anything unusual, didn’t hit the breaks, didn’t slow down at all…" he said. “but she seemed to just...disappear into thin air, in the middle of the street.” 

“I see. What exactly did she do, Gregory? Think. Try to recall as much detail as you can."

Greg closed his eyes. He could see her in his mind's eye, dressed in green...a feather in her matching green hat…hand raised...she walked into the road, stepped up...and vanished.

"Stepped up?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, just before she vanished."

"As in, climbed up into something?"

"Possibly."

"And dressed in green? You saw her in colour?"

"Yes, and solid. Couldn't see through her, like I can you."

Mycroft smiled. "I could...solidify a little more, if you wish."

"Not sure that's a good idea. I mean, I might forget you're not really here."

"I can assure you, I really am here, but I understand your meaning. I must confess that I am sorry that this is disturbing you so much. Needs must that I am honest with you though because I cannot emphasise enough how much time is important…Gregory, you can see the dead.” Greg was silent for a while, thinking hard. Mycroft watched him join the dots, coming to conclusions.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Greg said eventually.

“Sometimes, latent psychic talents are awakened by a head injury. Nobody seems to know why.”

“Shit…Although...you’re like I expect a ghost to be. I mean...you’re see-through. Like I told you, the people I saw were solid. The woman who walked in front of the car and vanished, I thought she was a real person. The kids too."

Mycroft regarded him for a moment. “As I told you, I could have appeared to you thus,” he admitted, “but...I decided perhaps that would not have convinced you of anything beyond that I faked my death. After all, Sherlock did so once. Your immediate reaction suggested that is what initially went through your thoughts upon seeing me here. So, I based my decision concerning how to appear to you on...well, forgive the pun, but I saw a need for transparency.”

“Oh, my God, no,” Greg groaned. “You are _not _forgiven for that. That was frankly terrible.” Greg grinned, and Mycroft joined him. 

“It made you smile,” the ghost said gently. “I have to confess, I have missed your smile."

Their eyes met. “Seriously?” Greg said, equally gentle. “Didn't think you were remotely interested in me."

“Gregory, no, you should not have felt that. I considered you were probably not interested in me.”

“Hell, you should have asked. I’m not straight, by any means.” He sighed heavily. “Too late now, I guess, but I rather fancied you too, you know.”

“Honestly? What on earth is there to fancy?”

“Now who is being daft? You’re...you _were...are_ gorgeous; slim build, charming manners, you still have lovely eyes, and you have taste and elegance. Seriously, what’s not to like? Still are...if only in a non-corporeal way.”

“I was hardly approachable," Mycroft scoffed. "They did not call me the Iceman for nothing.”

“Yeah, but that was your job. There was a human being in there, underneath, someone with a heart, capable of loving, caring and protecting. Pity I never got to know him.”

Mycroft sighed, a gusty thing, although technically he had no need of drawing breath. “Maybe now you can," he said, hopefully. "I have no need to maintain the image I constructed in life. I do not answer to anyone else now. You never know, you may find me altogether more agreeable."

“You planning to stick around then?”Greg asked.

“Indeed. That is what an officially appointed Spirit Guide does, Gregory."

"About that. Who appointed you, exactly?"

"I was sent, dispatched with all haste. I merely became aware of your need."

"The job wasn't advertised then?" Greg said with a grin.

"I did not attend an interview, if that's what you thought. I think it is merely a need that is filled by the most suitable and compatible personality. We are simply summoned, and sent."

"Who by, though? God? An Angel?"

"Higher powers exist, but we interact in a very different way. It is not how you may imagine it."

"Can't imagine you sitting in front of a board of directors in Heaven, being quizzed. 'Now, Mr Holmes, what qualities do you think you could bring to the role of Spirit Guide to Mr Lestrade?'." 

Mycroft smiled. "You are a rare human being, Gregory.” _In more ways than one._ “You are one who can see—and potentially communicate with—the dead, and as such, you _will_ need guidance and protection. Look, whether this is real or not, there are no other options right now."

"Knew this reminded me of something. It's like Life on Mars."

"What is?" It was Mycroft's turn to be puzzled. "Gregory, I assure you, there is no life on Mars." 

"No, you prat, it's like the tv series, Life on Mars."

"Explain."

"A DI, like me, gets shot and ends up in a coma, lives this whole other life, back in the 1970s, trying to figure out how to get home, keeps getting messages through his tele screen and by phone."

"Popular culture," Mycroft said. "Never my forte."

"Yeah, well...I'm not getting messages through my tv screen, yet, and I've not been flipped back in time either, thank God. I'd rather forget the 70s."

"I wish I could reassure you of the reality of this, Gregory. I have no wish to distress you."

"No, I appreciate that." Greg took a deep breath and huffed a deep sigh. He seemed to come to a conclusion. "Okay, then. For now, let's carry on as though this is real. Just...bear with me, okay? Might take some getting used to." 

Mycroft smiled and nodded slowly. "Understood. I shall do my best to accommodate you, but forgive me if I prove to be less than patient. Time, or lack thereof, is concerning me. We have until the 31st to get you up to speed."

"The 31st?"

"All Hallows Eve, Gregory. The time of the year when the veil between the living and the dead is at its weakest."

"Halloween? But that's less than a week away. Doesn't give us much leeway."

"Hence the urgency."

"Okay then, better fill me in on why I'm so important…"


	3. Unfinished Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg starts to learn more about his 'gift', and gets a visit from a very unexpected person. 
> 
> I really hope this hangs together. Next chapter up soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for triggers, this is involves a suicide attempt, facing loss, and my take on the afterlife. If anything else jumps out that I haven't flagged, please let me know and I will flag it up.
> 
> If you need a lifeline yourself, the Samaritans can be reached in the UK 24/7 on 116 123 or go to www.samaritans.org for advice. If you are in the US, phone 1 (800) 273-TALK

"You have a gift, the full extent of which, even I do not yet know." Mycroft was standing by the darkened window, staring into the night outside. "There is a task only you can accomplish, but you need to understand more about your gift first."

“Is that what you’re here for?”

“In a manner of speaking, but there are things you will have to find out for yourself. However, over and above the task in hand, there is something else I would like you to do for me. I have some unfinished business of my own…"

"Okay, who with? Oh, hang on a minute,” Greg said, warily. “Does this involve me approaching some random stranger and appearing to be really creepy by telling them not to take the train on monday, or something?"

Mycroft blinked, a small frown pulling his brows together. "What on earth are you babbling about, Gregory? I merely wished you to help me complete something that I failed to do in life, that is all."

"It's just...whenever I've watched any of these tv dramas with a psychic in the main role, they just end up looking crazy when they're trying to warn someone about a future event, you know?"

"As I may have already stated, I was never one for popular culture. That is where misinformation and stereotyping originates. Besides, not all those who are gifted with such skills as yours can predict events. The future is largely nebulous, with so many variables affecting it. However, it is sometimes possible to foresee potential outcomes, based on current factors…"

"Okay, I get it. No lottery win for me, hm?"

"There are more successful ways of making money, Gregory."

"Wish I knew a few.”

"If money is what you desire…"

"I'm not greedy, Mycroft, but even you must know how expensive living in London is, even with London weighting, and we had to split everything down the middle as a result of the divorce. She got half, and it's not enough to find anywhere decent."

Mycroft made a show of looking around the flat. "I can see that much, Gregory. Nobody could accuse you of avarice, but it is not wrong to want a little more comfort and security in one's life. I can show you how to invest for your future, if you wish. It may take longer than you would like, but the rewards are worth waiting for."

"Always thought that was really complicated."

"Childsplay, when you know how."

Greg looked unconvinced. "I'll take your word for that, Sunshine. So, what's this _unfinished business_ then?"

”Tomorrow, Gregory. I think it is a task for another day. You look tired.”

"So, is there anyone else I can ask about my skills? I mean, anyone living?"

"Doubtful. Most living psychics are much weaker than you seem to be. Communicating in a limited fashion with the dead is their only ability. However, one or two may be able to give you assistance, but you will most likely need to sift through the dross to find the accuracies.”

“I’m a copper, Mycroft. I do that most days. What about helping ghosts to cross over? Can I do that?”

"Given the general level of human skill in these matters, not many can do even that much. Some can show a soul how to cross, but they often have the wrong idea of where they need to send them. Heaven and Hell are a human construct, and there is no such thing beyond mainstream religion. Most people who call themselves psychics usually have the right of it where their ability to help someone to cross is concerned, but they do not fully understand it. You, on the other hand, should be able to show a soul the way onward, help them finish their business here and, If necessary, make them move on, force them to leave. You can probably also combat entities…"

"Hang on, what? What did you say? Entities? Combat? What the fuck, Mycroft?" 

"There are negative energies in the world, Gregory. Malicious energy does exist. Some of those entities are simply there because they can be, indifferent to the human suffering they cause, sometimes even caused by it. Enough human misery crammed in one place over a long time has a power of its own."

"Christ, what am I, some kind of Ghostbuster?"

"In a manner of speaking. You won't require the backpacks and the traps though."

"Do they slime you?" 

"Rarely."

"Lovely." 

"I am joking,” Mycroft said with a small but distinctly cheeky smile. “They are more likely to hurl things, to use kinetic force, which can be a whole lot nastier.”

“Poltergeists?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You say that a lot.”

Greg spent a fitful night’s sleep, dreaming of Sherlock (he wasn’t surprised about that), apples (which was a bit random), and falling (which sent his heart rate rocketting), from which he woke sweating at around three am, trying to fight the bed covers. He thrashed around and freed himself from the covers, only to find a small girl sitting at the end of his bed. “Jesus!” he cried, sitting up so fast he made himself dizzy. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Language, Gregory,” Mycroft said, suddenly appearing beside him. 

“Shit! Mycroft, don’t you do that either! Sorry, sorry,” he said to the girl, who giggled. 

“Daddy used to say that, a lot, and mummy always got cross,” she said, kicking her feet along the edge of the bed. She was almost but not quite transparent, wavering at the edges and blurring slightly. 

“What’s your name?” Greg asked, warily. 

“Roberta.” She was a pretty child, dark hair in a ponytail cascading down her back in waves. She turned a pair of bright intelligent hazel eyes on him. She looked happy, well cared for.

“Roberta,” Mycroft said, his tone serious. “Now, my dear, do please remember, there are manners to keep, even though you are no longer among the living. You need to tell me before you suddenly appear. Gregory is very new to his talents and needs a little warning before you visit. Now, why are you here?”

“Daddy is going to kill himself,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“What? Why?” Greg asked.

“Because I died,” she said, and Greg mentally kicked himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where is he, do you know?”

“Walking.”

“Yes, but where?”

“Said he was going to the Angel…but he’s underground. I don't understand. Angels aren’t underground…”

Mycroft exchanged a blank look with Greg, who suddenly leapt out of bed, pulling his wardrobe door open. He spared a fleeting moment to thank God he had chosen to wear pajamas. “The Angel tube station, end of the main road,” he explained, grabbing track pants and a t-shirt, as well as his hoody that he used for running. He pulled them all on over his pjs and slid his feet into his trainers, then headed into the hall, grabbing his wallet, phone and keys as he passed. He went out the door as fast as he could, which on balance was not as fast as he would have liked. Slamming it closed behind him, he didn’t bother looking to see if Mycroft was with him. Downstairs, he limped over to his car and got in, realising belatedly that the two of them, man and girl, were already in the back seat waiting. Shaking his head, he turned on the ignition and revved the engine, then paused. “I haven’t driven the car since the...since I was…” 

“You will be fine,” Mycroft said gently. “Take it steady, and don’t break any traffic laws.” The wry amusement in his voice belied the gravity of the situation but Greg nodded, then threw the car into gear and pulled out into the quiet square. He was hyper-aware of the need to get there as fast as possible which warred with his need to take things carefully. If he had an accident now it would do Roberta’s dad no good at all. Amazingly there was a car park slot on the kerbside not far away, and Greg took the opportunity. He got out and crossed the road to the station as fast as he could, almost forgetting to lock the vehicle. He was frustrated by not being able to hurry.

“Come on!” Roberta demanded, but Mycroft held a hand out to restrain her headlong flight.

“Have patience, Roberta,” he said. “Gregory is only human, and recovering from injury. He will do his best.” She flew ahead, but waited for them at the gate, and did not say anything more. 

“I thought the tube shut at midnight…” Mycroft commented.

“Northern is one of the lines that run 24 hour services at the end of the week. Good job it’s a Friday,” Greg panted, flicking his wallet against the reader on the turnstile. The cardreader beeped and let him through. _Advantage of being a copper, _he thought, suddenly uncertain of which direction to go. “Trouble is, if it was shut, we’d not be in this situation.”

“Doubtless, he would find another way…”

“This way,” Roberta said, interrupting Mycroft’s observation and waving at them from the arch into the platform. 

“What does your dad look like?” Greg thought to ask, trying not to feel like an idiot as he followed the ghostly little girl. 

“I’ll point him out to you,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Hey,” Greg wanted to know, “Why come to me? I mean, why stop him? Don’t you want him to be with you?”

She smiled at him, with all the patience of an eight year old. “Don’t be silly, mummy needs him,” she said, skipping under the archway onto the southbound platform. “There he is. The man holding the teddy bear. That’s _my_ teddy,” she said, sounding a bit miffed. 

“Mycroft, phone the police…”

“Gregory, that_ is_ a little beyond me…”

“Damn, sorry, yes. Forgot...” Greg cast about to locate someone who worked on the rail. An orange coated cleaner was working up the far end of the platform. “Mycroft, can you persuade him not to jump? Like you did to me?”

“It will be harder. I might be able to delay him…” 

“Then do it!” Greg went up to the cleaner and flashed his warrant card. The man peered owlishly at the details and looked up, squinting at Greg.

“Can I ‘elp you, Guv?” 

“Yes, you can. Get to a phone, call an ambulance. I’ve reason to believe there’s a man down there about to try to commit suicide. I’m going to try to talk him out of it.”

“Bloody ‘Ell, rather you than me, mate. I’ll go phone the office.”

“Good man. Get an ambulance here as soon as possible.” 

Greg left him and walked down to where Mycroft was standing with the girl. The man was hovering near the end of the platform, and Greg walked up, standing near but not too close.

“Evening,” he said, gently. The man startled, and turned toward him. “It’s okay, don’t worry, not here to interrupt your evening…” 

“What do you want then?” the man replied warily.

“You want to talk?”

“Not particularly,” he said, softly. 

“Well, let me talk to you, eh?” Greg said, smiling. “Hard when you lose someone, hm?”

“What?” the man’s eyes went wide. “Do I know you?”

“No, no, but...honestly, mate, I saw you standing there and...well, I’ve been where you are,” Greg admitted. 

“How do you know where I bloody am?”

“Why don’t you tell me? Where are you?”

“In purgatory,” he said, voice an anguished whisper.

“Sounds familiar. You mind telling me what happened?”

“None of your business,” he said, obviously trying for belligerent, although his heart wasn’t in it. There was a pause, and Greg let it lengthen, waiting. “M.m.my d.d.daughter…” he said, eventually. “She died a few months ago. She was only eight...hit and run driver. That Bastard,” he swore, “never fucking stopped. Just drove on, left her at the roadside...She might have still been alive if he’d stopped!” 

“Bugger,” Greg swore. “That’s bad, but it’s not worth ending it, mate. You’ve a wife needs you…”

“How do you know who needs me? No one needs me. She’s got her mother…”

“Maybe you need to talk to her,” Greg suggested, searching for something to say. “Did they get the person responsible?”

“No. Bloody police...they said they couldn’t because there was no cctv. Bollocks to that!” the man swore. “Everywhere is covered by cctv. She was across the road, in the park. It’s got cctv all over. You can’t tell me they didn’t have anything!”

“Look, what’s your name? Can’t keep calling you _mate_, can I?”

“Garry...Gareth Archer.”

“Mine’s Greg. Look, Garry, I’m going to level with you. I’m a policeman. I work out of the Met, Serious Crimes. When I get back to work, I’ll get someone to take another look at the case for you, but you’ll need to stick around for a while. We’ll need to chat to you again, in case anything was missed. Would you agree to that? See if we can’t get some justice for Roberta.” There was a pause, during which it clicked over to Greg that he might just have made a grave mistake.

“How do you know her name?” Garry asked, suspiciously. 

“Didn’t you tell me?”

“No...no, I...what’s going on?”

_Fuck, _Greg thought, glancing around for Mycroft. _What do I do now?_

“Perhaps you should tell him that his daughter told you.”

“Like that’s going to work,” Greg muttered, rolling his eyes.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Okay, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” he said. “I mean, how come you’re here, at 3.30am...It’s like you knew. How? I never told anybody...”

“What, no note?”

“No. Never meant to be saved. I just...it’s so hard...carrying on as if nothing’s wrong…”

“Okay, look, when I tell you, don’t get mad, okay? It’s been a long day…” Greg took a breath and let it go slowly. “Your daughter told me,” he said. “She appeared in my...home, about twenty minutes ago, and woke me up. She said you were going to kill yourself, so I came down here to stop you. She’s with me now.”

“Describe her to me.” He said it as a challenge.

“Oh, okay, she’s...um...she’s got hazel eyes, brown hair, and that’s her teddy you’ve got there. She’s about this high,” he said, holding his hand up to the top of her head. “She has a ponytail, and she’s wearing pink jeans with flowers embroidered along the seam, and a blue tee shirt with a My Little Pony, I think it’s Rainbow Dash,” he said. 

Garry blinked. “Robby,” he breathed.

“I drew Rainbow Dash on his birthday card,” Robby said. 

“She says she drew Rainbow Dash on your birthday card.”

“Oh, my God…What the fuck are you, psychic?”

“Honestly, mate, I am not sure what I am. This is all new to me.”

“I put something in the teddy,” Roberta said. “For safe keeping. Tell him that.”

“What, inside it, you mean?”

“Yes, it’s a pendant, Daddy bought it for me.”

“Pendant? In the bear?”

“Yes, in his tummy. It’s a gold heart.”

“Did you buy her a gold heart-shaped pendant?” Garry looked at him in shock and nodded.

“For her seventh birthday, why?”

“It’s in the bear’s middle.” Garry looked at the bear, and then examined the seam crossing its midsection. It was loose. He worked it open and stuck a finger inside. His eyes went wide as he drew out a chain, and at the end of the chain, a gold filigree heart, swinging gently from his fingers. 

“Robby? Baby?” he said, voice unsteady. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t keep you safe…” Tears threatened, and Garry looked anguished. 

“Tell him it’s okay. It wasn’t his fault. I’m happy. I’m with Granny Wilkin and snowflake.”

“Snowflake?”

“Our cat. He got run over but mummy and daddy didn’t tell me because they didn’t want me to be upset. I knew though.”

“She’s happy, says she’s with Granny Wilkin.”

“Oh God… That’s Teresa’s mother, she died before Robby was born…”

“She says Snowflake is there too. Your cat that got run over, and you didn’t tell her because you didn’t want her to be upset, but she says she knew.”

“How on earth could you know that?”

“I promise you, Garry, I’m just trying to help because your daughter asked me to. You won’t see me again after tonight. Go home to your wife, mourn your loss, and carry on, for her. And for God’s sake, take my advice and keep that teddy safe. I’ll make sure my colleagues to get in touch and do a bit more digging about this, but beyond that, I’ll have to leave them to it. We’ll try to get some justice for your daughter. Just..promise me you won’t try this again. And get some help. Counselling.” Greg reached to take the man’s elbow gently, to lead him away from the edge. He saw two paramedics standing waiting in the wings. “Now, Garry, go with these guys, let them assess you, maybe find you the help you need, hm? For Robby?” Garry nodded, to Greg’s great relief. Greg handed the man over to one of the Paramedics and explained to the other one what had happened, leaving out the details about his own part in all of it. He gave his name, but asked for his involvement to be played down. “Just...look after him. He’s got a wife. If you can get someone to contact her…”

As they started to lead him away, Garry stopped and turned. “Tell her I love her?” he said. 

Greg smiled. “I think she knows that, or she wouldn’t have found me.” Garry nodded, and let his rescuers lead him away. Greg watched them go. When he turned around, Roberta was gazing up at him.

“What?” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, with a bright grin. “You’re good. You’re the only one I could make listen to me,” she said. “I can go now.”

“You know where to go?”

“Oh, yes. Over the bridge and into the light.”

“Bridge?”

“The rainbow,” she said brightly, “Over the rainbow and into the garden. I can fly like Rainbow Dash now.” Suddenly, where a small child had been, there was only empty air. Greg sighed, blowing his cheeks out. “Now that’s over,” he said, “I need my bed…”

He drove home in contemplative mood, never having been as thankful to get through his door as he was that morning. He couldn't stop yawning. He fell back onto his bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. “Mycroft?” he said. 

“I am here.”

“What the fuck just happened?”

“You saved a man’s life.”

“Because I got haunted by his daughter.”

“That about covers it,” Mycroft agreed. “You did well. It was not an easy thing to accomplish.”

“God, Mycroft, please tell me this isn’t going to happen on a regular basis, I don’t think I could cope…”

“You are particularly strong in your talents, Gregory. I think you might reasonably expect your help to be sought now and again, but...It was remiss of me not to shield you from her. I should at least be a barrier between you and those spirits who need help. I honestly didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

“Please, just don’t let any more through like that, at least...not for tonight...I cannot save _everybody_…I’ve already gone through that. I’m a copper. That’s why I became a policeman, to help people, but I’m not a superhero. Christ, I am knackered. How am I going to keep doing this, Myc…?”

“I shall, of course, filter the visits. They won’t happen like that again.”

“No, but I’m a Met Copper, and I know the stats. Victims of violent crime, people who’ve died young...disease, accidents, RTIs, Christ, there are thousands who might have unfinished business...I’m going to be run off my feet...”

“As I said, I shall protect you, but you need to learn to barrier them for yourself. A barrier is essential if you wish to function normally.”

“Barrier?”

“A mental shield, if you will. It is quite simple. Just conjure up a wall in your mind’s eye. A high impenetrable wall, built of whatever you would like, thick enough to withstand any onslaught, infinite enough that no one may find a way around or over. That wall is your barrier. You keep unwanted minds out of yours. Go ahead, give it a try,” Mycroft encouraged. “Just imagine it. Stand before it, see it there in your head. Reach out and touch it, really feel it, tell me what it looks like?”

“Alright.” Greg closed his eyes. “It’s golden, glowing in a setting sun, a bit rough hewn, but...you know those walls at Machu Picchu?”

“Peru?”

“Yeah, those. Huge blocks, but uneven. Seamless though.” “A good analogy.”

“I can’t see its top, it’s lost in cloud. And it’s stretching away on either side, too far to see.”

“Good. Your wall can be lowered, or raised, dissolved or solidified, at will. A simple thing, but all yours, and all you need to do is think about it.”

“Seriously? That’s all it takes to keep people out? Feels too simple.”

“Seriously. Think of it now, Gregory. Think of it and Keep me out.” Greg thought of his wall, although he couldn’t quite believe in it. “You are wavering. Keep. Me. Out,” Mycroft ordered. 

“I’m trying.”

“But you don’t believe that this is all you have to do. It isn’t complicated. Do not overthink it. It really is that simple.”

“Okay…” For a moment, he felt..._something_. Then he slammed his wall home like a large door.

“You succeeded, Gregory. That is much better, although practice makes perfect. Your will is exceptionally strong. I have high hopes that you will be able to achieve the task in hand, but you need to believe in yourself. You were very...compassionate tonight.”

“Well, wasn’t about to let the guy make a huge mistake. Besides, I really wasn’t lying. I have been where he was. When your brother faked his death...Christ. That was...bad, Mycroft. The worst…” He missed the look of concern in Mycroft’s eyes because his own slid shut. Moments later, he was snoring. 


	4. Secrets and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed but probably not the ones you were expecting...
> 
> With subtle reference to a certain other British security agency....

"I am going to give you a phone number and I’d like you to text one word, _Lazarus_. The response you get will determine what I tell you to do next.” Mycroft waited while Greg retrieved his phone and then recited the number. It was mid-afternoon the day after the dramatic ‘rescue’ and Greg had slept undisturbed until mid-morning. A mad dash in the middle of the night and preventing a man from chucking himself under a train tended to take it out of a person. Greg was finishing his coffee after lunch. 

“So is this me helping you with your ‘unfinished business’?” Greg typed in _Lazarus_, and hit _send. _

“Yes. You won’t have long to wait.” Indeed it was less than a minute before Greg’s phone pinged. 

“Good afternoon, Inspector Lestrade, may I be of service?” Greg read out. “So who did I just text?” 

“Anthea, my assistant in life, my successor in death. Capable woman, and very lovely, but there are things even she was not privy to. I am going to reveal one of those things to you both soon. I want you to text back ‘can we meet?’. When she agrees, then text ‘Pick me up, ten minutes'. You won't need to tell her where you are, she'll locate your phone's GPS.”

“What if she’s not free?” 

“She will be, considering the message you just texted.”

“But where are we going?” Greg asked, typing the message and hitting send again.

“The Diogenese. My club. She knows where it is, she had to pick me up from there many times. I had an office there, part of which has not been accessed since my death.”

“Whyever not?”

“I left strict instruction that the office would go to the person named in my will. Anthea is that person. She has the key on her key ring. I had planned to leave her more instructions, but I never got the chance.”

“Why should she give access to me?”

“Because you sent her the keyword.”

“Lazarus.”

“Exactly.”

Exactly ten minutes later, after Greg had managed a mad dash into his bedroom to get ready to go out, a black town car drifted up to the kerb outside Greg’s address and stopped. He was waiting by the kerb, as ready as he could be, as the car door swung open. A pair of shapely legs clad in black stockings and finished off with black patent heels could be seen inside, and Greg ducked his head to better see the woman he was to meet.

“Anthea Mallory, hello again." A brief look of alarm crossed her features before they settled into neutrality, so like Mycroft that Greg smiled. 

“Please, Inspector, get in.”

“Okay.” Greg got in and closed the door. He was subjected to an intense gaze from a pair of dark eyes that made him wish he was twenty years younger.

“Firstly, I'll thank you to forget that name,” she said. 

“What name?” he asked, smiling. “Don’t worry. Not a name I shall ever utter again.”

“It is not one I ever use. You shouldn’t even know it.”

“Not a problem.” He met her assessing gaze with one of his own.

“How?” she said simply.

“Pardon me?”

“How did he survive?”

“I’m not sure I…”

“Inspector, just what is going on here? Only he could have told you that name. Nobody else knows it, or the keyword too. Ergo, he's alive."

“No, I'm afraid he really isn't. Look, this is all very weird, and I don't expect you to believe me, but ... can you just take us to the Diogenes?”

“No. At least, not until you tell me what is going on.”

“Hm, I had expected nothing less,” Mycroft admitted from the seat beside him. Greg jumped. “For God’s sake, don’t do that!” he snapped.

“Do what?” two voices asked him simultaneously. 

Greg rolled his eyes and had a brief Randall and Hopkirk moment of sheer disbelief. “Okay, what do I say?” he said. 

“You had better tell her the truth.” Mycroft said. “Anthea deserves nothing less.” 

Greg looked around to fix Mycroft with a look. _Are you sure? _The ghost nodded. “Okay, where do I start?”

“The beginning?” two voices suggested helpfully.

**00000000**

“You are asking me to believe that Mr Holmes’ ghost has visited you and we are going to the Diogenese to locate something only he knew about?”

“Pretty much, yes.” 

“This is…” Anthea paused and shook her head slightly. “I’m not even sure why I’m here. This is crazy. You sound…”

“I know. I know. It sounds like I’ve gone nuts, I agree. It’s lame and really weird, but it’s all true. Look, I’m certain you know the exact terms of Mycroft Holmes’ last will and testament. You know the only thing he left me in his will was a tidy sum of money which paid off a couple of debts and let me buy a flat. There were no secret notes, no private messages, nothing." Greg knew that Anthea was perfectly cognizant of the exact wording of Mycroft's last will. "We hardly knew each other. You know he wouldn't have confided in me, certainly not your name. We weren’t in the habit of going for coffee and a chat. I’m more than surprised he’s appeared now.” Beside him, Mycroft nodded. Greg ignored him. “Okay, what about this then? Sherlock told me Mycroft had died of a heart attack, nothing more. Mycroft told me that was bollocks, that he’d been hit by a sniper.” The shock on Anthea’s face was not feigned. “How did I know that, hm? My security clearance isn't high enough to access Mycroft’s preferred beverage, never mind how he died, if indeed it's even written down anywhere. Besides, you'd know if I'd tried to hack the records. Mycroft tells me the heart attack thing was a blind, that nobody knew the reality, apart from you and his immediate colleagues. You didn't even tell his own brother how he’d died. I didn't see the body either. You explained the closed coffin by saying he'd left his brain to the Royal Society, but Mycroft told me it was a headshot, that there wasn't much left of his brain to donate. Even his parents think it was heart failure. Ask Sherlock if you don't believe me...”

“I can’t.”

“She can’t…” The words collided in mid-air. “Tell her not to say anything more about that,” Mycroft said, urgently. "Not right now."

“He says not to tell me any more.” Greg frowned. Anthea glanced past him, then shook her head. Moments later, the car drew in to the kerb. 

“We’re here,” she said, casting him a weird look as the car drew to a halt. They got out, walking quickly to the door of the club. Greg was about to enquire after the person in charge, but Anthea was ahead of him and held up her hand, one finger to her lips. She lead the way through the hall, garnering a few looks that ranged from the curious to the disgusted, but she ignored them all and lead Greg up a wide sweeping staircase to a corridor on the first floor, walking along the plush Turkish carpet to a solid-looking door. She put the equally solid-looking key in the lock and turned it. The well-oiled mechanism clicked and the door opened. She lead the way inside, locking the door securely behind them once they were inside. “Now, Inspector…” she began, and then paused. “_Greg_…” she said, trying for a friendlier tone. “Why did you say I could ask Sherlock?”

“Well, you could, couldn’t you? Pick up a phone, ask him if he told me?” He watched her face, and a frown formed on his own brow. She looked...puzzled. 

"Gregory…please, do not ask her about my brother again," Mycroft instructed. 

"Why? What on earth is going on with your brother? Why won’t anybody tell me?"

"You will find out in due course. Please concentrate on the matter in-hand…"

"Mycroft…"

“You perhaps need to tell her something more, something that only I could possibly know,” Mycroft interrupted softly. “I think she’s doubting your sanity. You need to tell her something that she unequivocally knows that nobody else could know.” 

Greg turned his back on Anthea and raised his eyebrows at Mycroft. "Didn't we just do that?" He hissed.

"Perhaps it was not enough. Tell her...word for word, mind you,” Mycroft instructed. “Remember 2004?” A nod of his head prompted Greg to repeat the words to Anthea. As he did so, her head snapped up. 

“What about 2004?”

“June, I believe it was.” Again Greg repeated the words. “June 23rd. A young woman was sent up to me from Admin. I was in need of some help, a PA, someone to keep me on track. The woman in question possessed a certain poise, a noteworthy amount of self possession, a natural ability to make any man do exactly what she wanted, and a head for organisation that frankly has found no equal.” Mycroft paused, facing her. Anthea looked confused as Greg recited Mycroft’s words to her. “Tell her…” Mycroft paused, having drifted closer to her. He reached out, closed his eyes, went still, his palm cupping her cheek. He stroked his thumb gently across her skin. For a moment, she seemed to lean into the touch, but then she stood back, almost stumbling, looking around wildly. 

“What the actual fuck…” The swear word sounded wrong.

“It’s okay. He’s...um...I think he misses you.” Greg watched Mycroft, his expression fond. 

“What is this?” Anthea looked angry, frightened. She had lost her cool veneer. 

“Tell her, she wore a subtle tartan skirt in greys and greens, her father, Merlin’s, tartan.” 

_Odd name,_ Greg thought, but when he repeated Mycroft’s words, Anthea startled, face pale. “Stop, just...I have no idea how you found this out, but…never speak that name again…"

“It’s an unusual name…”

“Because it’s his code name,” Mycroft said. “He works for...one of our security services.”

“My father,” Anthea said, “stays safe because nobody knows his real name. Few know his identity…”

“Look, Mycroft just told me. Is that written down anywhere? How could I have known?”

“I do not understand any of this. It’s impossible, but honestly, if you don’t keep your mouth shut about the things you know, I will shoot you myself, understood?”

“Hey,” Greg snapped. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t ask for this. Mycroft is...telling me this so you’ll understand he’s still here, and he cares for you. So you’ll believe me. I have no intention of blabbing this to anybody, of misusing anything I'm told. I'm a copper, it's not something I would ever do. I wouldn't have the first idea what it means anyway. You're probably thinking I should be sectioned, because this sounds mad. So…." He shrugged. "Does it matter what he tells me?" She fixed him with a hard look through narrowed eyes. "If you won't believe it anyway?"

“I am who I am,” she said. “Mr Holmes taught me everything he knew. He taught me well, and he taught me never to trust someone who seems to know too much…”

“I also taught you not to condemn without proof.”

Anthea looked about her in shock. “M.M.Mr Holmes? I…” she looked back at Greg. “You heard that?”

“If you heard him say he’d taught you not to condemn people without proof, then yes, I heard. You’re not going mad. Well, no more than I am, anyway.”

She was visibly pulling herself together, reviewing the facts, gathering her composure. “I’m prepared to believe you, given that there is no other explanation. Based upon the fact that I know incontrovertibly that nobody knows the events of my interview, it was done in a secure office, and there is, or rather there_ was_ a film, but Mr Holmes turned the camera off before he told me he knew the connection between myself and my father…I am still loath to believe in the supernatural, but...”

“Takes some getting used to, I admit. Still not sure it isn’t some dream or some drug-induced hallucination. I might wake up any minute to find out I’m still in hospital. I have no idea. What I do know is I’m going to run with it for now because it’s all I’ve got.”

“Then so will I.”

“Good, so…now what?” Greg asked, looking at Mycroft. “Look, I feel a complete tit talking to nothing. Why can I see and hear you, and Anthea can’t?”

“Anthea is...It doesn’t take much effort where you are concerned.”

“Why?”

“Because...I do not have a...a deep connection, with Anthea, like I do with you…”

“We have a deeper connection? How is that possible?” 

“You are very powerful, Greg. I have told you this. The connection I felt is really rather strong. I felt it before we touched, but I had no idea how strong you were until I made that connection with you.”

“Mycroft, would you please explain? What are you talking about? Strong how exactly?” 

“Perhaps now is not the time,” Mycroft suggested. Greg realised that Anthea was looking at him strangely. “You already know she cannot hear me."

“Sorry,” Greg said, glancing at her apologetically. 

“Perhaps you had best let me tell you what to do and where to go?” Mycroft suggested. “Look at the panels of wood behind Anthea, would you? Third column from the window, the square above the dado rail. Press down on the bottom right corner of the panel.” Mycroft walked, or rather drifted, to the panel in question and tapped the necessary corner with his umbrella. “Here,” he said. Greg reached out and pressed hard. The entire panel moved under his hands. 

“What...just happened?”

“It’s a secret door,” Anthea said. She reached out and gave it a push. The panel opened inward revealing an entire room. It resembled a Captain’s cabin in the way it was laid out, making maximum use of space.

“My secure overnight accommodation,” Mycroft said, pleased. “Also my safe room. Now, Gregory, the Monet slides on runners. Open it up please.” 

Greg looked around the room. There was a single box bed built into the wall on the left, and a desk on the right hand wall, with a swivel chair tucked into it. A shelf was arranged above the desk, with a few books in residence. Ahead of them, on the far wall, was a painting of waterlilies. “Yes, that’s the one.” The painting whispered to the side as Greg pushed it, revealing a safe. Beside the safe was a key pad.

“0, 7, 3, 6, 5, 2, 8,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg pressed the buttons in sequence. The safe clicked and the lock disengaged. Gingerly, Greg opened its door.

“Oh, my God,” Anthea murmured as the light hit the interior of the dark hole in the wall. "I had no idea…"

There were several large envelopes, some velvet jewellery boxes, a couple of folded documents with ribbons and seals around them, and two box files. Beneath them on the bottom shelf, lay six gold bars, neatly covering the floor of the safe. 

“Insurance,” Mycroft said. "Each bar weighs twelve and a half kilos. Current market value places them around 450 thousand each. Easily enough to retire on. Those documents tied with a ribbon are my legal documents. You will find the deeds to a cottage in Sussex and...an apartment in Belgravia. The velvet boxes contain my great grandmother’s jewellery. The file boxes contain several files and diaries, and a letter detailing how the contents of the safe are to be distributed.”

“Hang on, why did nobody know about this already?” Greg asked. 

“I have no idea,” Anthea said, rummaging through to find the letter. Mycroft smiled a little sadly. 

“I am afraid although I was in the process of seeing my solicitor, to add the details to my will, I never got to the appointment with him. It would have been the day after I was killed. This is the only way it would have ever come to light. Unless by accident, of course, but it might have been years. I told you I had wanted to leave more instruction, but I never got the chance.” 

“So surely Sherlock will inherit all this from you?”

Anthea was about to open her mouth but Mycroft placed a firm finger on her lips. She gasped and stopped talking. “Please tell her I need to talk to you, and she must leave certain things to me.”

“I...alright,” Anthea agreed, when Greg repeated the words. “I hope he tells you everything. If not…”

“Tell her that I shall, and not to fret.” Greg repeated his words, watching as Mycroft stroked a finger across the gold. “There is more than enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, without having to work. I can help you invest it, Gregory.” He paused. “Sherlock, John, Rosamund, and Anthea too. A nest egg if you will. I suggest that Anthea sells it and the amount is split between you. For Anthea, I want her to have the jewellery in the blue case." Greg took it out and handed it over. 

“He wants you to have this,” he said. The sapphires were gorgeous, dark blue and expertly cut, a necklace and earrings. 

“I thought the pink box for Rosie, when she comes of age.” Inside was a pink diamond necklace and earrings, the central stone of which was mounted on platignum with small diamonds set around the larger stones.

“That is amazing. Rosie is bound to love it. Do you want me to give it to John?”

“I think perhaps, Anthea, darling, if you would be so kind as to lodge it with my solicitor? To be released to Miss Rosamund Mary Watson, on the occasion of her 18th birthday. I think I have detailed the distribution in my letter.”

Greg repeated Mycroft’s words and Anthea took the box from Greg. “The other papers should be destroyed, perhaps. There is sensitive information in them, evidence, photos, things I formally held over certain people, so it can be destroyed. Most of the people they pertained to are dead. Just...better go through them, but there are two I think may still be actively useful." Greg relayed the information and Anthea nodded, taking the sheaf of files and sliding them into her briefcase. 

"This confirms what you've just told me," she said, brandishing an opened letter. "He wants the cottage to go to John, and the jewellery for myself and Rosamund Watson. The gold is to be sold and the amount split...There's something else…" she turned the letter to him. Greg read the paragraph where she pointed. 

_For my friend, Detective Inspector Gregory Johnathan Lestrade, I give over my ownership of the apartment and its contents in Belgravia…_

"What apartment in Belgravia?"

"There is a rooftop apartment in a mews on the edge of Belgravia,” Anthea said. “It isn’t large, by London standards, but it’s nice. I remember seeing a couple of estate agent photos. There are spare keys are here, as are the deeds. I never went there though. I don't know it's exact location. I knew there were keys on his keyring that seemed to have no home, but I couldn't find what they belonged to. He must have an alias on the deeds."

"It wasn't sold as part of my estate," Mycroft said. "Nobody knew about it. It was my bolt hole, my secret. Oh, it is perfectly secure, but I deliberately kept it off the radar. Not even Anthea knows where it is." 

"You never knew about it?" Greg asked her.

"Oh, I knew of its existence, just never knew exactly where it was. It was dangerous, though. Had anyone found out, associated it with Mr Holmes, he could have been targeted there…"

"Which is why I kept it very quiet," Mycroft added. "Whenever I was there, I was Mr Snow…"

"You know nothing, John Snow!" Greg quoted.

"What?" Anthea quirked an eyebrow, but smiled when Greg told her.

"That was one of his more favourite aliases, but it was Matthew Snow, not John. Freelance Insurance Underwriter…" 

"Couldn't just be something simple, like telesales…"

"God forbid," Mycroft retorted.

"Telesales? In Belgravia?" Anthea frowned.

"CEO?" Greg suggested.

"Point," she said, grinning. "I never found any property under his aliases though. I looked."

"That's because it is not in my name," Mycroft said, looking at Greg. “As far as the legal side of things went, we were...partners. Married. I am listed as Matthew Lestrade on the legal documents. Although my neighbours know me as Matthew Snow and we are...estranged. It was my...little fantasy, I suppose. I believe I told them you had allowed me to keep the apartment so that I had somewhere to live. I made you sound very noble.”

"Oh, right."

"What?" Anthea asked.

"He says it's in my name," Greg said. 

"It's yours then," she said. "Including whatever is in there. Don't worry, I'll speed it through legal channels by week's end."

"You can do that? What am I saying, of _course_ you can do that."

"Of course she can do that," Mycroft echoed. 

“Can he hear me?” she asked. 

Greg smiled and nodded. “Of course.”

"Mr Holmes, if you can hear me, I miss you…" Greg risked laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She did not shrug him off. "You were the best man I could ever have hoped to work with, Mr Holmes. Thank you. For everything."

"Tell her...tell her to keep in touch with you, and to ask advice if she needs to. I know some of it will be too secret to divulge, but she could still couch it in hypothetical terms if required. I am still happy to help." Anthea's smile was slightly watery but she nodded agreement when Greg suggested it. 

“So I have an apartment? In Belgravia?”

“Yes. There is no impediment to you moving in there, if you wish. You have the keys and the deeds. Your name is on there. It is legally yours.” Greg had just watched Anthea drive away, citing that he would get a cab. He and Mycroft were currently en route to his new apartment. 

“We’re ‘ere, sir,” the cabby said, pulling over. Greg paid him and got out, looking down a cobbled mews that lead away from the road, through wrought iron gates that were firmly locked. 

“Can I help you?” A cheerful, grey-haired man in his sixties was staring through the gate at him, watering can in hand. Greg noticed the planters outside the open door behind the man, late blooms dripping water onto the cobbles.

“Is this Terrence Mews?”

“It is. Were you expected?”

For safety, Greg drew his warrant card out and showed it. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” he said, affably. “I…” _What can I say?_ He had never been to this place. _How on earth do I explain…?_

“Tell him you’ve been away…?” Mycroft suggested. 

“I’ve been...away for a long time. My...partner, he died a couple of years ago, left me his apartment here. I’ve never seen the place…It’s rather complicated.”

“Oh, so _you’re _Greg. Michael has passed away, you say?” The man’s expression turned mournful. “So sad. My condolences on your loss. We all wondered why his apartment was empty for so long. We knew he travelled, but we were afraid he had sold it to some property tycoon. So, it’s yours then?”

“Yes, but.. It’s complicated.” 

“I’m Archie Dewar,” the man said. “I’m in the lower flat over there. Look, would you...would you care for a drink? I have something I think you might like to see. If you press the little fob on your keys, it opens the gate.”

Curious, Greg pressed the fob on the key chain and the gates rattled inwards. “Love to, Mr Dewar” he said, with a smile.

“Oh, please, call me Archie,” he said, and lead the way into his flat. 

“I remember your partner well...although I knew him as Michael Snow. He was such a nice man, good looking too. He had a poise and elegance you don’t see in the young any more.” Archie placed a steaming mug in front of him and sat opposite Greg at his kitchen table, a mug of his own curling steam into the air, wreathing his face in it. “Didn’t see him often, of course, but when I did, he was always the gentleman. I’m afraid he told me you were… estranged, that was how he put it. Although he never bore you any ill will, you know. Said you had parted amicably, that you both owned the flat, but you’d allowed him to keep it as long as he wanted...but, he also told me that he had hopes you would get back together again some time.” 

Greg flicked a glance around for Mycroft but his guide was curiously absent. “Michael was...complicated,” Greg said. “A very interesting man...but sometimes difficult to know what was going on in that daft head of his.”

“Oh, he was very sweet. It’s a shame you had to part.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Not a lot, truth be known. All I knew was that he was retired from Insurance Underwriting, his parents were both dead, and he had no siblings. He once told me he travelled a lot, which was obviously why he was gone for long periods, but he was quiet when he was here to the point that sometimes I didn’t know he was even in residence. I would see him leave, but I never knew when he had arrived. He didn’t announce himself.” 

“He died very suddenly, heart attack,” Greg explained. “I wasn’t really in touch with him, and it took them a long time to find me. I...well, I was out of the country too,” he lied. “I wasn’t in a good place myself, and it’s taken me a long time to process it all…”

“How sad that you never knew,” Archie said. “He obviously hoped you would get back together. Still loved you, I think.”

Greg nodded, feigning a brave smile. “He was a very...loving man. Complicated, as I said. Did you ever go into his flat?”

“Once or twice. It is a nice place, but…”

“But?”

“A little bare. He didn’t seem to have much there. However, perhaps he didn’t want to have much, given he travelled a lot.” Greg nodded and sipped the coffee. “Here, this was what I wanted you to see.” A photo was placed on the table, a group of people in front of a Christmas tree, glasses in hand. At the end of the line was Mycroft, looking relaxed and happy, smiling, and dressed in a soft blue sweater and grey cords. His hair glowed in the lights. “So handsome,” Archie said, smiling. “I have to say...and I hope it doesn’t offend you, but...I rather made a play for Michael myself. He wasn’t interested though. Always holding a candle for you, I think.” 

Greg stood. “I’m not offended,” he said with a smile. “He _was_ a handsome bloke.”

“Keep it,” Archie said. “I have a copy.”

“Thanks, Archie, that’s kind of you. I...don’t have many photos of him. Anyway, thanks for the coffee, but I’d better be getting along. Got to get back to work this afternoon,” he lied. 

“Any time, Greg. The door to Michael’s flat is in the far corner, the blue one.”

The flat was a bit dusty, and there were a few bits of mail on the mat, but beyond that, it was dry and even slightly warm. It was neat and tidy, and even some of Mycroft’s clothes were still in the closet. Greg reached out to run his fingers contemplatively over a soft cashmere sweater. The ensuite in the master bedroom was clean, the only evidence that someone had been there was the toothbrush and tube of toothpaste in a cup by the sink. Some of Mycroft’s shampoo and shaving stuff was in the small cabinet on the bathroom wall. The beds were made, and the kitchen clean. Greg boggled at the kitchen. It was huge, with a tiled floor and an island in the middle, stainless steel sinks and a large cooker with a six burner hob and massive brushed copper ventilator above it. The large American-style fridge was empty bar for a couple of bottles of water, thankfully. 

“I do believe I was not in residence when I was shot,” Mycroft said, pragmatically. “I never left anything in the fridge, and everything is in its place.” Greg had found him in the lounge, staring out of the window. “The heating runs through the whole building. Keeps the place from getting damp,” Mycroft added. 

“Apparently, you are a handsome man.” Greg brandished the photo. “I never knew you were so sociable, Myc.” 

“Oh, my God, that party was..._excruciating_. Enforced civility with one’s neighbours, mulled wine, Christmas cheer…”

“Sounds terrible,” Greg agreed.

“We even had Secret Santa,” Mycroft scoffed. 

“The indignity,” Greg commiserated. 

“It was everything I abhor.”

“Really, Mycroft? I mean, you look so relaxed and happy. You sure you didn’t like it just a little bit?”

“It was...moderately acceptable, I suppose,” Mycroft conceded. “They tried their best, but...I am not now and never was a _party animal_, Gregory. It ranked only marginally higher than Christmas dinner with my parents’.”

“Go on then, what was your secret santa gift?”

“A green tie.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“It had flashing lights and played Jingle Bells, Gregory.”

“Ah. Okay then, that’s not so good.” 

“And that is an understatement considering the hideous nature of the accessory in question.”

“I’m sure you got over it, eventually. Anyway, I gather from Archie he made a play for you once, but you weren’t interested. He thinks you were holding a candle for me…”

“Gregory…”

“Any truth in the rumour, Mycroft?”

Serious blue eyes met his. “I can neither confirm nor deny…” A half smile tugged at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. 

“Mr Holmes, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Pishtosh,” Mycroft said softly. “As if I could ever withhold anything from one of Scotland Yard’s finest.”

“And that’s a load of bollocks, Myc.”

“Detective Inspector, if you could trouble yourself to struggle all the way to the end of my name, I would greatly appreciate the gesture.”

“That’s a load of bollocks, _Mycroft_,” Greg repeated, grinning. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft intoned, solemnly. 

“This is a nice place you have here,” Greg said, looking round. He could see Archie’s point. It _was_ a bit bare, although the wide screen tv and the state of the art sound system was minimalist, rather than bare, and expensive too, even if two years out of date. There were some carefully chosen paintings—original watercolours— dotting the walls, and a few pieces of obviously antique furniture. The walls were neutral colours; dove grey, eggshell blue, cream. Altogether the place was elegant and understated, quintessentially Mycroft. 

“Yours now,” Mycroft said, with a smile.

“Thank you,” Greg said. “Considering you didn’t really know me, this is very generous.”

“Small consolation for dealing with my brother,” Mycroft said. “You deserve much more.”

“Nah, seriously, it was worth it, just to see him as he is now…”

“Gregory…” 

“What?”

“I think you need to come with me to Baker Street…”


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg learns a few truths.

Greg knew he might not have the gifted genius intellect of the Holmes brothers, but he _was_ a policeman, with a policeman's analytical mind. Moreover he was in Serious Crimes, so he was no slouch when it came to putting the facts together. On the way through to Baker Street, despite Mycroft's constant presence, he remained silent, sorting things through in his head. 

"Do you require solitude?" Mycroft said suddenly. At first, Greg didn't answer. He braked and changed gear as they approached traffic lights, stopping the car before replying.

"How did you know?"

"Your mood. You are conflicted, confused. So, do you want me to go?" 

"Under normal circumstances, no."

"But? Be plain, Gregory. These are not...normal circumstances, are they?"

"Best to say _usual_ rather than _normal," _Greg said. "After all, define _normal_. I don't think my life consists of normal anything. I'm a copper with the Met police. We don't get _normal_." He sighed as the lights changed to green. "In answer to your question, yes, I think I might need a bit of time on my own. I can't concentrate...sorry," he added lamely.

"There is no need to apologise, Gregory," Mycroft said gently. "You can trust me. I shall meet with you at Baker Street."

"Thank you." But Greg found he was speaking to empty space. He was suddenly alone in the car.

He drove past the end of the road twice before he was ready to park and face the truth. Sorting everything in his head was difficult. There was so much he had no answer to. On the one hand, he knew John wasn't revealing something awful about the last six months. He was behaving as though Sherlock was dead, _but their split could be the reason for that_, he supposed. Sherlock had visited him twice in hospital and Greg had been to see him at 221b. Mrs Hudson knew he was there. Mycroft had spoken of his brother as though he were still alive, but…Anthea had definitely been confused when he suggested calling Sherlock. She had told him she couldn't. Mycroft had jumped in and asked her not to say any more. What was that all about?

"Urgh!" Greg mumbled as he got out of his car and locked it. He looked up at the living room window, wondering. Doubtless, he would find some answers here. He was just not sure he was ready for them. 

"Well, hello, Greg,” Mrs Hudson said, warmly. "You've brought a friend, I see." 

Greg looked around to see Mycroft standing behind him. He turned back, warily. “You can see him?" 

Mrs Hudson looked puzzled. "Of course, dear."

"Christ, and I thought I was going nuts. What's he wearing then?"

"A rather dapper tweed three piece," the lady said, "complete with pocket watch and chain. A blue tie and pocket square."

"Jesus, she really can see you…”

“Good day to you, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said gently, walking past them both. "How does my brother fair?”

“Oh, he’s alright. A bit mopey, but he’ll be fine. He’s upstairs now, dear." She turned toward Greg. "Can I get you some tea?”

“But… Mrs Hudson...How can you see—_and hear_—Mycroft? How can she see you? I thought Anthea couldn't because you don't have a link, or whatever it is...”

“Anthea has no ability to see or hear the dead. Mrs Hudson has always been able to see such things. She's psychic...”

“Psychic?” Greg rapidly felt like the world was leaving him behind, or tilting on it’s carefully maintained axis. 

"Anthea is not. I had to try harder to make a connection with her." 

“Yes, dear,” the lady said. “I'm just like you, although I dare say I’m not nearly so gifted. I’ll go get you some tea. You look like you could use a cup. Had a shock, have we, dear?”

"I do believe," said a voice from upstairs, "that he's in for a bigger one any minute now. Perhaps something stronger, Mrs Hudson?"

Greg allowed himself to be lead into the lounge of 221b and Mycroft pushed him toward a seat. It was rather a gentle shove of air which encouraged him to move in a particular direction. Mrs Hudson brought in the tea tray, with only one cup, which Greg thought was odd. Sherlock drifted to the window. Again that diaphanous effect on his dressing gown in the sunlight… Greg stared. He glanced back at Mycroft...then to Sherlock, who turned and smiled directly at his brother. 

“Oh, my God," Greg breathed. "Sherlock… You… you can see Mycroft, can’t you? Your brother…" He let out a shaky breath, heart suddenly hammering. “You can’t be…" he groaned. All his suspicions were coming true. "Please no. Is that what I don’t remember?” Overwhelmed, Greg felt his senses drift, the edges of his vision going black. 

"Whoops," Mrs Hudson guided him to the chair and sat him down before his legs gave out.

“And he was taking this so well, too," he heard Mycroft say.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock ordered. “Fetch your brandy please…”

"Tell me it's not true, please. Is that what I can't remember? Your death?"

"I'm not dead, Lestrade."

"Then what the Holy Fuck are you, because you're not a zombie."

"Language, Lestrade. Ladies present…"

"Oh, do be quiet, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson scolded. "You are not helping. Come on, Inspector, take a swig of this." The brandy burned a warm path to his stomach and he recovered his wits slightly. "Thanks," he said, clutching the glass like his life depended on it. 

"Better?"

"A little. One of you explain, please."

Sherlock sat down opposite and fixed him with a look. "I'm not dead yet," he said. "I'm in a coma, but they don't expect me to recover. I wasn't lying when I said I had risked my life. I got attacked on a case, left the two of you behind again. John is angry, and rightly so. He thinks I do not love him because if I did, I never would have risked my life like that. However, we have been together too long for him not to understand my motivations. I am...disappointed that he feels that way. It is blocking any empathy he has for me, and my...spirit, if you like to call it that, my life force, my Ka…"

"Your what?"

"Do keep up, Lestrade. My Ka, my Essence."

"Ancient Egyptian," Mycroft offered, helpfully. "More correctly, Ba," he said. "The Ba is the part of the soul that can travel between the living and the dead." 

"Whatever," Sherlock snapped, "my spirit is trapped until this reaches its conclusion. Currently, John is putting off turning my life support off, because he believes you should have some input into the decision."

"Why me? He's your next of kin, isn't he?"

"Sentiment," Sherlock said. "John is a man of principle. Since you lost your memory, he has been waiting. I believe you were both going to make that choice, before you were shot. After all, you are both my friends, my family."

"Is that what you're asking, for us to turn the machines off? So you can go?"

"No! I don't want to die. John needs me and I need him, but...I can't make him hear me. I've tried. Every time he visits…It’s like talking to a brick wall."

“Hang on. Is John even a tiny bit psychic? If he isn’t, how do you expect him to be able to see or hear you?”

“We have a connection, a bond. He should have felt...I don’t know...something?”

"So, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Halloween. All Hallows. Samhain. The one night of the year when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead thins enough that we have a chance to bring me back. If you switch it off now, I will die. I don't know how to return. With your help, I think I could find my way back…"

"And if not?"

"Gregory, you are powerful enough…" Mycroft said. "But…"

"But?"

"John needs to believe too," Sherlock insisted. "We have a connection that I can use. We are bound together, like you are with my brother, and it could be enough to keep me here, but...without his faith, I think it might not work."

"Like me, bit of a pragmatist is John. What, you need me to come up with a plan as to how we can make him believe?" Greg shook his head. "Tall order, that." He drained the brandy glass and held it out hopefully. Mrs H took the hint and poured another measure into his glass. He smiled his thanks.

"There has to be something…" Sherlock was pacing. 

"You'd better be ready to grovel. You will have to promise not to do this again, ever," Greg insisted. "He won't survive you ending your life again. He's already in bits, he just won't show it."

"I'm a fool."

"You don't learn your lessons, that's your problem, Sunshine."

"Will you help?" Greg was put in mind of the first time he had laid eyes on John Watson, here in this very room, with himself asking that same question. Seemed like eons ago now. Greg sighed. Time moved on.

"Can't very well refuse, can I? Considering you and your brother stopped me dying."

"You remember that?'

"A little. He told me what you did though. So...better put our thinking caps on, hadn't we, because if I outright tell him, if I try to explain this, he'll have me sectioned so fast my feet won't touch the ground," Greg said. 

"You need to tell him something only he knows. Something that could only have come from me," Sherlock said.

"Won't work. John'll think you told me before you were hurt." 

"Something only he knows?" Mycroft suggested. “Something he has never told anyone else.”

"And just how is Gavin supposed to know that?"

"Didn't you know? I'm psychic now," Greg grinned. "Actually...Mycroft, can I summon spirits?" There was a pause. 

"Summon, banish, it should all be available to you now. Why?"

For answer, Greg closed his eyes and conjured up a picture of a woman in her late thirties, tousled blond hair above intelligent blue eyes. "Mary," he said gently, imagining her there, in front of him. "I am calling you, Mary. Come here, please. Need your help." There was a pause, during which Greg felt nothing at all; no tussle, no resistance, nothing of note. He opened his eyes. 

"Well, well, look at you, Inspector Greg. Wow…" and there she was, in the room with them, laughing delightedly. 

"Mary," he said, smiling, "or is that Rosamund?"

"Doesn't matter really. It's the intent that counts. So, what can I do for you? Admittedly didn't expect to be requested like this, but I'm impressed."

"Apparently, I'm psychic now. Took a tumble, banged my head, and here we are."

"Oh, I think it might be a bit more than that, you know, but I get it,” she said. “You've got the essence of it."

"What else could it be?"

"You died, didn't you? How many times?"

"Er….three, or so I'm told."

"There you go then. Three times. Things come in threes, lots of times. Three monkeys…"

"Actually, you're wrong there. There are sometimes four," Mycroft said, helpfully. "One was 'do no evil', if memory serves." 

"Where were his hands then?" Greg asked.

For answer, mycroft folded his hands across his lap. Mary laughed. 

"God, you've changed," she said, happily. 

"So I've been told," Mycroft said, dryly.

"So yes, threes. Three wise men. Father, son, and holy spirit. Ka, Ba and Akh. Shall I go on?"

"Your point being?" Sherlock asked.

"Changes you," Mary said. "Profoundly."

"My words exactly, dear," Mrs Hudson agreed.

"Hello, Mrs H," Mary said brightly.

"So do you want to know why I asked you to come?" Greg said.

"Bloody Hell, Greg, if that's you asking, I'd hate to experience a demand."

"What? You're free to leave, Mary," he said. "Didn't mean to imply that you couldn't refuse."

"That's nice, but honestly, do you really not know how strong you are? There's no way I could have ignored that request."

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously. You're so forceful when you want something." She chuckled. "It's alright, Mycroft. No need to get jealous. I'm not after your fella. Talking of fellas, how is John?"

"That's kind of why I wanted you here," Greg admitted, and settled down to tell her the story.


	6. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the chapter where the boys get together.   
Yes, we have ghost sex... I make no apologies...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my take on the afterlife, there is discussion of what happens after death, and while this is a story, I hope it doesn't conflict with anyone's world view. It isn't meant to offend, or challenge, it is simply possibility. 
> 
> Again, I hope this hangs together. The sex is cliched, but what the Hell, it's Christmas...

“Wow...that's…" Mary was at a loss for words. She had listened to Greg's account of what had happened in silence, frowning occasionally, but not interrupting. 

"So, if you've got anything that only John knows…" Greg finished.

"Ooo, that’s a good one. I need to give that a little thought.” Mary perched on the sofa and put her head on one side. “Aw, my Baker Street Boys,” she said fondly. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you, Sherlock? I dunno, when I had to leave, there was I, hoping you two would get together and be happy, and look what you do. When you get back, maybe I need to be your spirit guide.”

“Please, God, no,” Sherlock deadpanned. 

“Why you stuck here anyway?” Mary asked.

“Because, not dead,” Sherlock said economically.

“Oh, I get it. Cos you’re not really gone, you can’t go just anywhere, can you?”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “Familiar places only.”

“My body is at Barts," Sherlock explained, "and I know the place intimately anyway. I know this place," he spun around, "like the back of my hand, but...John’s new digs, I am not familiar with. Ergo, for some reason, I cannot be with him there. Tedious!” he spat.

“Aw, don’t worry, we’ll see what we can do,” Mary said. “Now then, concerning John, let’s see…”

**0000000**

"I believe the term is 'a penny for them?'," Mycroft said gently. He had come up behind Greg as he stood gazing out of the kitchen window. "Whatever is the matter, Gregory?"

"Hm? Oh." Greg took a breath. "Just… thinking. It's a huge responsibility, this thing you want me to do. "

"I am well aware."

"I mean, what could go wrong?” Greg snarked. He huffed out an exasperated breath. “Jesus, there’s so much that has to happen for this to come right, it’s bloody scary." 

"Gregory, I am very well aware of everything that could happen. However I think you are overthinking things. The worst case scenario is that my brother dies. If he does, then it will still be alright. He will be safe, because you will be there."

"But...I thought I was supposed to save him?" 

"_Save_ is perhaps not the right word. After all, you are hardly saving him if you make sure he lives. You put him back into the world, where he can suffer pain and illness and emotional upset. Dead, he is free of that. Isn't that a better prospect?"

"I thought you wanted me to..._restore_ him. Perhaps that’s a better way of putting it.”

“He is the one who wishes to be restored. I simply desire for him to be safe.” 

“Look, Mycroft, what if I'm not good enough...if something goes wrong? What if he dies…?"

"Bring Sherlock back_ if you can_. If you can't, you will still make sure that he is safe, because you are strong enough to do so. He will not be a lost soul."

"Can that happen?" 

"Of course. Traumatic death, unfinished business, when a soul is not prepared to move on. You may find yourself helping quite a few of those in the future."

"I don’t want to let Sherlock down though. If he wants to live and something goes wrong…"

"His desire to return to John will give him the motivation to stay."

"Yes, but...how can I do it to John? If I manage to get John to believe me, if he gets his hopes up, and then it all fails…"

"I am sure you will succeed, Gregory. I have the utmost faith in you." 

Greg sighed heavily. "Yes, but...I don’t have much faith in myself…"

"Gregory, you are very caring. It is a major part of your power, you know. A Sensitive such as yourself has to be compassionate, caring, optimistic. One must have hope, and faith to some degree. Oh, not necessarily religious faith, just...a willingness to believe in the possibility of hope. That is all faith is, after all.” 

Greg turned. “God, I wish…” he began.

“What?”

“Just wish we’d had some time together before...before you had to leave. I actually missed you, you know? Things changed after you left. Sherlock was difficult, darker, for a time after. Thank God he had John and Rosie. They saved him, got him through it.”

“You know, I was always scared for him,” Mycroft admitted. “I always wondered what might happen if I was unlucky enough to precede him. In the event, he coped well, all things considered. John was a great influence, and caring for Rosie was a great comfort to him, but then, so were you.”

“I missed our chats, you know. I missed your wit and your astute observations. I know we weren’t exactly in the habit of going for tea and a chitchat, but I used to like it when we ran across each other in 221b. Always liked talking to you.”

“I admit to enjoying our brief discussions, especially when the topic went off my brother and onto something more...enjoyable.”

“I don’t like change, never have. I’m a creature of habit. Whenever I've lost anyone close, and I’m old enough to have lost a few, the change has often been a bit much for me to cope with. I don't bounce back easily. I can't adapt. That’s not necessarily the best character trait for a copper to have. We have to be adaptable, and that in itself is a product of dealing with change.”

“Ah, the eternal dichotomy,” Mycroft said. “Constant change, that in itself remains the same.” “How do you mean?”

“Change always happens. Change is a constant. Something constant does not change.” 

Greg nodded. “Odd world we live in.”

Mycroft smiled. “Quite,” he said. “I have to say, your summoning of Mary was rather impressive. That is not something most psychics can achieve, let alone with such efficiency. You are, after all, not very practiced at this, Gregory. I would hazard that you are, as they say, a _natural._”

“Well, I just...refused to overthink things, I guess. I just pictured her, and there she was.”

“Intent, visualisation, and focus. The three principles of magic…”

“Magic? Does that even exist?”

“Perhaps I should refer to it as the manipulation of the world around us to achieve a desired outcome. Magic is a little too _Harry Potter_ for the real world.”

“Isn’t that just science? Manipulating the world because you want something that doesn’t occur naturally?”

“Magic is simply science we have no explanation for, after all. However, visualisation, intent and focus are part and parcel of a lot of disciplines; science, research, medicine, even art. You must know what you want, how you will achieve it, and you must concentrate your energy on making it happen. That is exactly what you did.” 

“In it to win it?”

“Effectively, yes.”

**0000000**

“Got it.” 

“Pardon?”

“I know how you can get John’s attention,” Mary said, triumphantly. “There’s another DVD I sent him, after I died. I made a couple of video messages, but Sherlock only saw one. There was another, I sent it for his eyes only. I don’t think he’s ever shown to anyone, not even you,” she said to Sherlock. “Well, he was my husband," she added at Sherlock's frown. "I had things to say for his ears only. I’m not going to tell you lot everything that was on there either. It was private. However, there is one thing you could tell him.” Several pairs of eyes turned expectantly toward her, even if only one of them was living. "Tell him, AGRA221B.”

“Pardon?”

“AGRA221B. It’s the number of a safety deposit box I left him. He has the code to access it. My baby photos are in there, and a few other things, including my grandmother's engagement ring. 18ct Rose gold with three pink diamonds. Nobody knows that apart from him.” She started giggling. “There is something else you can tell him…” she said, mirth dancing in her eyes. “Since none of you came on our _sex holiday_,” she said, looking at Sherlock when she said it, “the donkeys we rode, John’s kept farting. We went on a trail to a temple, and we had to ride these obnoxious donkeys. John’s kept farting and it stank. I found it so funny but he swore me to secrecy. I don't think he ever told you lot about that, did he?"

"Not to my knowledge," Sherlock said. 

"Me either," Greg added. "So, all I have to do is tell John that I can see dead people, and that his donkey farted on your honeymoon. Piece of cake. If he doesn't bloody try sectioning me, I'll see you in a few days." 

"Don't forget granny's ring as well. Tell him AGRA221B. If you need me again, you know where I am," Mary said. 

"Yeah, I guess. Do I need to banish you or something?"

"You're a psychic, Greg, not one of Macbeth's witches. Just...I dunno, give me permission to leave the room maybe?"

"Okay, you're allowed to go, but you don't want to visit John?"

Mary was quiet for a moment. "Nah, it's fine. I look in on them occasionally, but he doesn’t need me. Besides, it'd be a bit much for him to take in. Look after him for me. He's not in the right headspace to have me haunt him right now. You can tell him I love him, but it's not his time to see me yet. He has his whole life ahead of him, with Sherlock, if he can get his head out of his arse for a moment. Let them have their time without me getting in the way. Good luck, love." The next second, he was looking at empty air. 

**0000000**

"Oh God, Nan, I need help…” Greg groaned. “Where are you when I need you?" 

"Hello, love." Greg opened his eyes in the dimness of his bedroom to see a woman of middle years, slightly greying hair and brown eyes, and a warm smile on her soft lips, sitting on the end of his bed. He hadn't been able to sleep, too many thoughts rolling around in his head. He had asked Mycroft to give him space again, and the man had obliged. Imagining his Nana Jenny had been easy, even if her appearance was still somewhat unexpected.

"Nan?" Tears sprang to his eyes, seeing once again the beloved face of the person who had virtually brought him up. He loved her so much. 

"Now, now, my lovely, no need to take on so." She patted his hand where it lay on the covers. He felt the pressure of her touch as a gentle breeze. "You look well, my lamb. Growing into your power every day. So...why on earth would you need my help?"

"I don't know what to do…" and suddenly he was spilling out his fears amid his tears like he had when he was a teenager. She sat through it, quiet, attentive, just the same way she always had, watching, listening, giving him her time and her advice.

"It seems to me," she said, when he was done, "that you are trying to cross bridges too early. Perhaps there are no bridges to cross."

"But I'm trying to prepare…" but she was shaking her head. She wagged a gentle finger at him, smiling.

"Ah, no, no. You are projecting your fears. You need to be positive, Greg. Listen to me, my love, you need to have more confidence in yourself. Look at you, able to summon me at will, to communicate with me, to see things most others cannot, to experience it all. You are in the prime of your life. Just because you are finding it easy does not mean that it is not special or that you are not capable. You have always been your own worst enemy, Greg. _Trust yourself_."

"I guess, it would be easier if I could feel something happening, like...I don't know, like a resistance, a force, or something, like I was pushing against something. Fact is, I think it, and it happens. I don't feel anything."

"And as a result, you are worrying that none of this is real, aren't you?" Greg nodded, miserably. The lady tutted, amused smile in place. It was so familiar, it made his heart ache. "It is real enough, my Darling. You just have to embrace it. Accept it and move forward." 

"I wish...just wish Mycroft was still alive. I so wish we could have...well, had a chance at being together. He's my spirit guide, but I knew him when he was alive."

"Just because he is not alive doesn't mean that you cannot be close. Have you bonded with him yet?"

"Bonded?"

"He is your spirit guide, is he not? Guides and Sensitives, they have a strong bond, as a rule. Ask him, my lamb. A bond like that lasts forever, even after your own time on earth is done. He will still be there for you, and you will be with him." 

"He will?"

"Yes, love, most certainly. Now, you can call on me any time you want, you know. You don't have to miss me any more."

"Really? You don't mind?"

"Why should I mind coming to see my favourite grandson?" 

"I dunno, I just...maybe I'm interrupting you doing something important…" 

Nana Jenny laughed delightedly. "Always so considerate, but no, you are not. I am able to visit you anytime."

"Thanks, Nan." 

"It is no trouble, my love. Anytime. Now, talk to your Mycroft, ask him. Yes?"

Greg sighed. "Alright, yes, I will. Thank you, Nan. Love you."

"Love you too, my lad. Always will.”

"Bye…" he watched her fade, wishing he could have felt her arms around him, as of old. Closing his eyes, he felt a soft pressure about his shoulders, like a hug. Comforted, he finally drifted off to sleep.

**0000000**

"So, what about this bonding thing then?" 

Mycroft regarded Greg as he was putting his books on the shelf of the new flat and smiled. "Who have you been speaking to?" Anthea had expedited the legal side of things, conjuring up her pet solicitor to sort out Greg’s ownership of the apartment within 24 hours. Greg was moving in gradually. 

"My Nan, last night,” he explained. “Very wise lady, my Nan. Said you and me should bond, cos we're Guide and Sensitive, and that is what Guides and Sensitives do."

"Yes, it is."

"Is that what you meant by having a deep connection with me?"

"Somewhat, yes. A Spirit Guide must have a connection with the Sensitive they are assigned to guide, otherwise there is little point in being assigned to them. The pairing is a mutual one, after all. The Guide gains power from the Sensitive, and vice versa.”

“What on earth do you need more power for?”

“To protect you, and the spirits you help.”

“What from?”

“Negative energies, things that would do harm. As I said, there are some malicious entities out there, traversing the dimensions. They cannot often interact with the living, although those rare ones who might are most probably blamed for any unexplained happenings on earth. Some unquiet lost spirits are harmful before they are controlled.”

“Can be dangerous then?”

“Usually minimally, but yes, it can sometimes be hazardous. You are more than capable of handling anything like that, Gregory.”

"Bloody hope so. So...how is it done, this bonding?”

"Quite simply. It does not involve anything very complex, it doesn't hurt, and it does not involve blood sacrifice."

Greg laughed. "That's good to know. So, what do we do?”

“It is a little difficult to explain. Were we both living, it would be like synchronising our heart beats and breathing, but that is superficial compared to what it actually is. Because one of us is no longer on this plain of existence, it must be done on a spiritual level, and that is harder to explain.”

“Why is it so difficult to understand?”

“Concepts are...not what humans believe they are. For instance I am appearing to you in this guise because this is how you remember me, but I do not need to appear like this. I could be a mass of light, of energy, and I could also be invisible to you, but still present. That would not be conducive to working with you, however. You are human, and I should make the effort to interface with you on your level because you cannot interface on mine.”

“Think I see what you’re saying. A bit like two computers trying to speak to each other using two completely different operating systems?”

“In a way, yes. Although imagine if one of those computers is stuck on one version of it’s programming, while the other is able to adapt and change. The one able to adapt needs to link with the one that is fixed, so it makes sense for the adaptable one to be the one to “change.”

“So I’m the one who is stuck, and you’re the one able to adapt?”

Mycroft nodded. “Heaven is a human construct, if you will. A perception based upon human understanding. Energy does not require the same restrictive forms and structures. It is mutable, fluid, able to shift and change. It cannot be made, or unmade.”

“The first law of Thermodynamics? Seriously? I remember that from school. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only be transferred or changed from one form to another. So what happens when we die is...our energy just changes into something else?”

“I suppose you could say we evolve.” 

“Into…?” There was a short pause, and then, before Greg’s eyes, a mass of swirling energy took the place of the man in the three piece suit. It corruscated and sparked soundlessly in the air, rainbows of light eddying in a maelstrom of brightness. It bore a passing resemblance to fairy lights on a Christmas tree, but that description would never have done it justice. Neither would the appearance of the sun’s flashing reflection on the ripples of a fast flowing river. Both were almost true. Flashes of oil-on-water iridescence blended with pure light, snowflake fractals of energy foaming and flowing in the air in front of him. It came closer, encompassing him in its frothing vortex, and then he was in the center of it, in the eye of the light storm, and such euphoria struck through him, it brought him to tears. It spiralled gently around him, and when it faded, he felt its loss like a physical pain. Speechless, he watched as Mycroft Holmes materialised before him again. “So fucking beautiful,” Greg murmured, moved by the whole experience. Mycroft moved closer, gradually invading Greg’s personal space. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmured, smiling.

“I feel like I’ve been given a glimpse of Heaven.”

“You’ve seen a small part of what we can become. Where we go...that again is conceptual. There are dimensions a plenty, if you can understand the concept. Dimensions are infinite. The real world, or I should say this particular physical one, is neither the only one or the most important. It just is. You exist on this one, you are born, live a linear existence, you die, then the doors open to you. Energies that knew each other will meet again, be drawn together, recognise each other. But it is not the same. Better, really, but I dare say you won’t completely understand until it is your turn.”

“So...why can’t we go to different dimensions? Why do we not know they’re there?”

“In a sense, you do. It is not possible for dimensions to interact with each other, that is a main rule of quantum physics. Human beings have understood that much at least. However, it is possible for beings who have transcended to pass between them. However, few humans can connect with us. One or two, given the right circumstances, can do so, but they often do not understand. In rare occasions, we have people like you, someone who needs guidance, and then we come to help. You are among the point zero zero zero one percent who have that ability. Your brain has been given a kick start, as it were.”

“I’m special then?”

“Very.”

“Mycroft…” Greg blushed. “That...what you did...It felt very...well...good…”

Mycroft was looking at him curiously. “I apologise,” he said gently. “If it was too...intimate.”

“No, no, it was...amazing. Could we...um...could we do it again? I want to see it again...See you again, like that. Jesus, it sounds like...I mean…” He shuddered. “Feels more euphoric than sex…”

“That’s because it is. Our connection is soul deep, Gregory. I am connecting with you on my level, and yours. Your level is necessarily less intimate. Less physical. Mine is energetic, incorporeal.”

“Oh God...does that mean...I mean…” Greg swallowed. “When you...do that, are you...inside me?”

“In a sense. My form of energy has no physical boundaries. I can slip through walls…”

Greg blushed. “If it’s that intimate...it’s like making love then?”

Mycroft smiled. “In a sense, perhaps we are. If you choose to look upon it like that? Are you content to look upon it like that?”

“More than content. I’m a sad, lonely bastard, Mycroft. I have a connection with nobody, with nothing else. Apart from John and Rosie, and they’re friends.” 

“Hm, part of what saddens you, yes? You are not loved, or wanted…or needed?”

“Not any more.”

“By me, you are.”

“Wish we could have been together in life.”

“Alas, the circumstances were not conducive to it. However, now we have all the time in the world. I will not be going anywhere now, unless you wish for privacy.”

“How on earth would I stop you?”

“The same way you would stop any incorporeal from doing anything against your wishes. You say no. No is a powerful force in its own right. No means no where I come from. It is a shield, a protection, a force. Mean it, Gregory, and nothing can stand against it.”

“That simple, hah?”

“Yes, Greg, that simple. Don't overthink it.”

“I think I might need that written on a t shirt. I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Trust me, Gregory, I cannot lie to you now.”

“Do you...nah, that’s just...sorry. Getting sentimental in my old age.”

“You were wanting to know if I love you?” Greg nodded. “The answer is yes, I do. You are easy to love.”

“Then come here,” Greg said, and reached out, passing his hand through Mycroft’s. He stepped backward, leading them to his bedroom. This time, there was a slight pulling sensation, and Mycroft drifted with him. Greg kicked the door shut and went over to the bed. He tugged off his tie, and threw his jacket on the chair, then he went about undoing his shirt buttons. “Pity you can’t do this for me any more.”

“Perhaps I can,” Mycroft said, and gradually, he became more solid. “I may not be able to maintain this form long. I am unpracticed.”

“Can’t we...share energy? I mean, can we strengthen each other? You were saying I was powerful and that we get something from each other.”

“Possibly, I am not certain.” Fingers unbuckled Greg’s belt, eased his trousers to the floor. Greg toed off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers and then peeled his socks off. There was a pressure against his crotch through the fabric of his boxers. He gasped. 

“You like that?”

“What gave it away?” There was a chuckle from Mycroft. 

“If the euphoria I create is too much, please tell me,” he murmured. “Perhaps you can come from that alone.” Greg shivered. Mycroft’s voice was a seductive purr. “Get into bed and lie down, you’ll be safe there. I shall take this...slowly.” There was a pause. “We do not have to do it this way…” he said. 

“Do what?”

“Bonding. Do you wish to bond with me, Gregory?”

“Yes. Yes I do. We’re doing this, I’m not going back on this....”

“Would you wish to do so_ this way_? We can simply enjoy our connection, or…”

“Just shut up and do it, I need you.” There was a feeling of unmistakable amusement. Gradually Mycroft’s form dissolved into that glowing rainbow light again, drifting across Greg’s body, enveloping him in it’s corruscating glow. It fizzed through him, soaking into his muscles, permeating his senses, his bones, his skin, his nerves...He gasped and writhed, feeling an invasion of sorts, a pressure, a fullness. 

*What do you want to feel?* This time the voice was in his head. 

“What can you make me feel?”

*Everything? Anything? I do not want to do anything without consent. After all, not all men are happy to take…*

“Give me it,” Greg said, bluntly. “Make me feel taken, if you like. I'm yours, Mycroft…”

*You do not need to speak, Gregory,* came the voice in his head. *Think, and I shall hear you.*

*You can read my thoughts?* Alarm registered in Greg's mind voice.

*Please, do not fret yourself,* Mycroft soothed. *I would never invade your mind like that. Surface thoughts only, your words to me. Even when I influenced you away from danger, I did not go deeply into your mind.*

Greg felt something press into his body, gentle and unobtrusive at first, which then increased, until he felt stuffed full. He cried out as pressure was applied to his prostate. Then the feeling changed into movement, thrusting gently in and out, although there was nothing there to see. Apart from the light, which he was engulfed in, which was soaked into every part of him. He was born aloft on the feelings, cradled in this cocoon of pleasure. There was a tight grip on his own prick and balls, squeezing and releasing, pumping gently. He was held up, or down, he wasn't sure. He was definitely supported, held, wrapped in warmth and comfort, pressed into the bed. He was also mastered, controlled, given everything he needed, without being oppressive or stifling. 

*When you come, Gregory, when you release that energy of your own, know that I am receiving it. It is to me, what this is to you…*

Greg groaned, felt his body held even more firmly, felt his cock and balls clasped even harder, pumped faster, although his orgasm was only just beginning as the feeling inside his body expanded, and the feeling of being stuffed and stretched grew impossibly greater. Eyes closed, he felt a pressure on his lips and opened his mouth, the feeling of a deep kiss moulding around his tongue. His release washed over him, and through him, and beyond, and he felt an answering surge of energy, a contentment so deep he never wanted it to end.... 

When he finally came to himself again, it was to see Mycroft under the covers, solid and naked beside him. Greg realised he was clean and dry and warm.

“How…?” 

“Energy can be neither created nor destroyed. A fundamental truth. Your release was… transformed, if you will. I have the ability to transform matter and energy and take strength from them. You effectively fed me, I suppose.” 

Greg giggled at the absurdity. “So, we’re bonded? It’s done?”

“It is. We are as synchronized as it is possible to be.”

Greg grinned, a little manically. He was euphoric, content, knowing with certainty that whatever happened he would never be lonely again. He was not sick, nor was he hallucinating, nor...anything. He was well, and thoroughly shagged, by a ghost…He chuckled.

“What amuses you?”

“Just wondering what my therapist would say if I told her I now have a ghostly lover?”

“Section you, perhaps. Take care, Gregory. Take care who you tell. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that some human beings would not understand…"

"Tossers, the lot of em. But yeah, I know. This stays quiet, and I feel a hell of a lot better. I'm still scared that I'm really hallucinating, that this will just..._disappear_… but...I've got it right this minute, right now. I'll just have to try to appreciate it while it lasts."

"This will last as long as you wish, beyond your own death, if that is what you want." 

Greg tried to smile. "Hey, Mycroft," he said, innocently.

"What, Gregory?"

"You heard the one about the petite psychic who escaped from police custody?" Mycroft raised a curious eyebrow. "Police say there's a small medium at large…" Greg could almost hear the resulting eye roll. 

"Retaliation for my transparency pun, I take it?" Mycroft suggested. 

Greg shrugged. "Didn't see that one coming, though, did you?"

Mycroft's sigh was dramatic. "Gregory, please…"

"Please, what? I'm on a roll. What do you call a prone ghost?" He glanced at his companion. "No suggestions? Okay, I'll tell you. A spirit level!"

"What did I do to deserve this?" Mycroft enquired of the universe. The universe, however, remained stubbornly silent. He gathered Greg into his arms and silenced him with a kiss. 


	7. The Big Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg tries to explain things to John and Rosie comes to the rescue...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longish one, Folks. Making up for lost time...

“John, what would you say if I told you I was psychic?” Greg shook his head. “No, no, no, that is not going to work.” He stared at himself in the mirror. “Hello, can I talk to you about the afterlife…? Fuck, no.” He ran a hand through his hair. “John, hi. I need to talk to you about something. I’ve got reason to believe I’m psychic now…Oh, Fuck me up, this isn’t going to end well. He’ll have me sectioned…”

“Not if you tell him what Mary told you to tell him.”

“Bollocks, Mycroft. I cannot simply come out and say that to him.”

“Why ever not? How on earth would you know that information? Would he not have to believe you immediately?”

“I don’t know, but somehow I think it might take more than that to convince him…”

“We have three days left, Gregory. You must do something soon.”

“I know, I know.” Greg stared at the mirror in despair. Mycroft was standing behind him, solid as anything. “How come you’re so solid? Thought you couldn’t maintain that form long?”

“I couldn’t, before we bonded. It seems as though our connection is fuelling my ability. Since we connected properly, I am able to do far more than I could without you. I do not run out of energy as quickly anymore.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Yes, it is, but…”

“But?”

“It seems, therefore, that I can do more legwork…”

Greg smiled. “And you always hated legwork, didn’t you?”

“Unfortunately.” Greg laughed at the chagrin in Mycroft’s tone. 

**0000000**

“So, John, hi...um...I rang to ask if you fancy a pint sometime?”

“Greg? Nice to finally hear from you. As to a pint, yeah, sure, if you want. Where and when?”

“Tomorrow okay? Three Tuns, round the corner from yours, say around 4?”

“Yeah, sure. Just let me check if I can get a babysitter, but I’ll text you. You okay?”

“Yeah, just got something to tell you is all.” 

“Right then, I’ll let you know soon.”

Greg put the phone down and turned to Mycroft. “There we go then. It’s done.”

“We can but see what happens. I am sure you will find a way to break it to him.”

“Oh, I can break it to him. What happens after is the problem.” Greg’s phone pinged.

**JW 13:24 I have a sitter from 4 but she’ll have to go by 7. Come back to mine after if you want**. 

“That’s it then,” Greg said, showing Mycroft the phone. “Operation Ghostbuster is go.”

**0000000**

The pub was quiet when they arrived, and Greg found a corner booth, ordering a couple of pints, one for himself and one for John, when he turned up. Mycroft sat opposite, looking disconcertingly real in the dim recesses of the pub.

Greg looked around, and frowned. “Fuck me,” he murmured. “This place is…”

“Busy?”

“You might say that.” Between the patrons, standing and sitting, were a few people who did not fit in with the regulars. “Mycroft, they’re all looking at me…” 

Mycroft turned and smiled. “They know you’re here, and they are curious.”

“Yes, but who are they? Are they all dead?”

_*Yes they are,* _Mycroft’s voice suddenly seemed to be right inside his head. *_While in public, Gregory, you may wish to simply think your words, communicate with me mentally? After all, nobody else can see me except you. That would only add fuel to the fire, as it were.*_

“Oh, my God…” Greg breathed, taking a deep pull at his pint. _*okay,* _he thought. 

_*Don’t worry, as to the non-corporeal patrons, they won’t disturb you. I will make sure of it.*_

_*Who are they though? Do they all need help?*_

_*Not at all. One or two, perhaps, but most are Guides in their own right, whether recognised or not, and some are Guardians…*_

_*Guardians?*_

_*Yes. Spirits tasked with guarding something for someone living.*_

_*People can do that?*_

_*A powerful psychic or magic user can do so, yes.*_

_*Magic user? This isn’t World of Warcraft, Myc.*_

_*There are people who can manipulate the forces of nature, Gregory. You might term them witches.*_

_*I thought you said magic was a little too Harry Potter, and now you’re telling me there really are witches?*_

_*As I believe I said, intent, visualisation, and focus, the three principles of magic, and magic is only science…*_

_*...science that we have yet to explain, yes, I remember.*_

_*Magic is not like Harry Potter in the real world, no, but people are out there who can command spirits and manipulate energy. Not always nice people either, but...If you disagree with a guardian being held there against their will, you have the power to dismiss them. You also have the power to place one where you wish.*_

_*So someone tasks them with guarding a place, why exactly?*_

_*Any number of reasons. To guard a ritual space against evil entities, to scare off thieves from precious things, to safeguard a person, the list is many.*_

_*So...what do you mean, safeguard a person?*_

_*Exactly that.*_

_*I thought that’s what Guardian Angels did.*_

_*That is a complex construct, and one not easy to define. If you perhaps feel someone is in need of guarding, you can set a Guardian in place yourself.*_

_Greg decided not to pursue that thread of discussion. *Er...Mycroft, there’s a young man behind you?*_

_*Yes, there is.*_

_*Look, Mycroft, I do know loitering with intent when I see it.*_

_*I promise he won’t bother you, not like Rebecca.*_

_*Okay, but who is he?*_

_*Noel Taylor. He died last night, a few doors down. Drugs overdose. He’s a little bit upset, a bit lost.…*_

_*Okay, mate,* _Greg looked resignedly at the young man. _*Care to tell us what happened?*_

_*Nobody wanted me…* _Greg heard Noel say, mournfully. *_Never called, never asked me if I was okay…I got bullied, by thems as I thought were friends...*_

_*That’s not right, son, but...you’re a bit beyond all that now. You do know...you're not alive anymore?* _Greg asked. The lad nodded, downcast. 

_*He slipped through the cracks,*_ Mycroft said gently. _*Care system failure, no family, body dysphoria…*_

_*I hate myself…*_

_*Hey, Noel. Don’t hate yourself, mate. Nothing to worry about now, is there? Time for you to leave that behind. You've no need to worry any more. Here…* _Greg closed his eyes, intently visualising the bright light Mycroft had taught him to see. He opened them to see Noel staring._ *There, mate, all you have to do is go into the light, see it? I promise, you’ll be fine. No more bullying, no more anxiety. That’s right, isn’t it?*_ he asked Mycroft, who nodded, smiling. 

___*That it?* _the lad said. _*That’s all I have to do?*_

Greg mentally chuckled. _*Yes, kid, that’s all you need to do.*_ The young man stared at the light and then looked back at Greg. *_Thanks, mate,*_ he said, and began to walk toward it. 

_*You’ll be okay now,* _Greg said and watched him vanish. He turned to the room. _*Anyone else need showing the way?*_ he thought. One or two ‘spirits’ bowed with respect but nobody else took him up on the offer.

“Greg, how are you?” John appeared, startling Greg so much he nearly dropped his pint. “Woah, steady there. Didn’t mean to make you jump. Where were you?”

“Sorry, John. Sit yourself down. I...sorry, I was just...thinking.” 

“You were a bit deep there. Nothing wrong?”

“No, no, just...I need to talk to you about something, and I don’t know where to start.”

“Okay, well, how about the beginning?”

“Sit down, drink your pint, and please, don’t judge me till I’ve finished, okay?”

“Okay…” John sat, made himself comfortable, and waited for Greg to start.

0000000

“I’ve remembered, about Sherlock.” 

John nodded. “So you know he’s…”

“Yes, in hospital, in a coma, and you were waiting for me to remember before you made a decision…”

“I...yes, I was...hang on, though. How did you know that?”

“Know? Know what?”

“About me waiting for you? It’s not something I’ve discussed with anyone, even you. I mean, you’re right, but…”

“You told Sherlock. You talk to him when you visit.”

John looked a bit embarrassed. “Yes, okay, I do. Don’t think he can hear me, but...they say hearing is the last thing to leave you. It’s worth a try." Greg watched him think for a moment. "Hold on, how did you know I do that? You've never been with me...”

“John, since the incident...I’ve changed. In a lot of ways, but...this might be a bit hard to get your head around.”

“Personality changes are explainable after a head injury, it’s more common than you’d think, but...honestly, I’ve not noticed anything where you’re concerned, nothing too drastic anyway. Are you worried?”

“No. No. This is more of a...well, a change of _ability_.”

“Some things can be affected by injuries like yours. If you’re finding you can’t do something you used to, don’t worry about it. It might come back with time…”

“No, it’s more...something I couldn’t do before, but I can do now. It explains how I know you were waiting for me to get my memory back before deciding to switch Sherlock’s life support off. It also explains how I know that you talk to him.” John was looking at him with curiosity. “This is going to seem a bit mad, and it takes a bit of a leap of faith…”

“What does?”

“Look, please, don’t be angry with me, but...I’ve thought this through every which way, but I don’t believe I’m hallucinating, or having flashbacks. Flashbacks are reliving things that actually happened. They’re something you experience that you’ve been through before. Hallucinations...when did you know anyone have a conversation with their hallucinations?”

“Sorry, mate, but it’s perfectly possible to engage in conversation with hallucinations. What exactly do you think has happened to you?”

Greg hesitated. “I seem to have developed the ability to see...and speak to...dead people…” John’s eyebrows rose and his eyes grew worried. “Let me explain before you start giving me a lecture on how mentally unstable I am…”

“Okay, Greg, I’m listening.” Greg knew that tone. It was the doctor’s placating tone, his understanding I’m-here-to-help-you-so-please-keep-calm tone. 

“Look, before you decide to call in the men in white coats to take me away, just please let me tell you what’s been going on?”

“I said I’m listening, Greg. Go ahead.”

Greg stared at him for a moment. “Okay then. Look, I knew about your decision to wait until I remembered about Sherlock because I’ve been talking to him, okay? He isn’t dead, yet. He’s in limbo. His body is in a coma, but his spirit is trapped, and I’ve been able to chat to him…”

“You must know how crazy that sounds?” 

“Look, John, I can prove it to you…?”

“How? How on earth can you prove it to me? Look, Greg, people who experience auditory hallucinations are not necessarily mentally ill. Some people who experience what you’ve described live with voices everyday. You’ve no need to worry. They’ve not said anything harmful, have they?”

“John, if I told you something only you know…”

“How could you manage that?”

Greg took a deep breath. “AGRA221B,” he said. 

“Wh.what?” John had gone pale. 

“Do you have that written down anywhere?” Greg asked.

“I...How could you possibly…?”

“Do you have it written down anywhere I could have found it?”

“No. No, I don’t. What is it then? What is AGRA221B?”

“The code to your deposit box. The deposit box nobody knows about. The one Mary told you about in the video she sent you.”

“What video?” John was looking somewhat ill. “What video, Greg?”

“The second video she sent you. The one you never even told Sherlock about, because it was private.”

“What was in it then, if you know so much…?” Anger flashed at the edges of John’s demeanour.

“I don’t know. Mary wouldn’t tell me much. Said it was private."

“Mary said…? What? You’re claiming to have spoken to her now? Jesus, Greg, this is…No, I don’t believe you!”

“How, John? How else would I have known? There is nobody else around who can tell me. You've never said anything. Sherlock can't, unless you admit I can speak to his spirit. Mycroft's dead…" He carefully left out the bit about Mycroft being his spirit guide. "There’s nothing to find in your place when I was living there, because there’s nothing written down, is there? Look, John, she gave me this to convince you this is legit. So you have to believe me. This isn’t an hallucination, I promise you. It’s important you believe me, very important, because we need to save Sherlock...”

“Fucking Hell, Greg. You need to stop, now…”

“John...No, please…I am fine. Recovering. Fine. I am not mad. She also said to tell you…”

“No more, please...”

“There’s Mary’s baby photos in it," Greg went on relentlessly. He was getting desperate, and he knew how it must sound, but he wasn't about to give up. "In the box, together with her Grandmother’s engagement ring, 18 carrat rose gold with three pink diamonds.” John’s expression was pure shock. “You’ve never told anyone. You also didn’t tell anyone about your honeymoon, about your trip to a temple and the obnoxious donkey you had to ride that farted all the time.” John was shaking his head. 

“I can’t…” his voice broke. “Sorry…” John pushed his chair back, stumbled away from the table, and fled. Greg put his head in his hands and groaned.

“That went well,” Mycroft murmured. 

**0000000**

“On the upside, he’s not sectioned me yet.” They had made it back to 221B, and were sitting in the living room, Mrs Hudson sitting opposite. Greg stared glumly at his tea. “He didn’t take it very well…”

“He had a shock, dear,” she said. “Like you. Not a surprise. He’ll come round, if I know John.”

“Maybe not in time though…”

“Greg? He’s at the hospital…” Sherlock said, his tone slightly worried. “He’s talking to me. Asking if it can be true...He’s not convinced, but you know so much he knows he never told anyone.”

Greg was on alert, body tense. “Is he...well, are you in danger?”

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock smiled. “Text him, Greg. Tell him to come here…”

“What now?”

“If you tell him you know where he is, and what he’s saying…because of me.”

Greg took out his phone and brought up John’s number. “What the fuck do I say?”

**GL 18:33 John, please come to 221b, asap. I know you’re at the hospital with Sherlock. Please come here and talk. Sherlock can’t communicate with you, but I can. He tells me you’re asking if it’s all true**.

“What else is he saying? Sherlock?”

“Look, even I can’t be in two places at once. Let me hear what he has to say,” Sherlock replied testily and disappeared. Greg sat in silence, staring at the text he hadn’t yet sent. Moments later, Sherlock popped back in.

“He’s crying. Dear God, I wish...I want to hold him. I’m useless like this!”

“Okay, take it easy. What did he say?”

“He wanted to know why Mary hadn’t visited him? Why couldn’t he talk to her or to me? He’s angry I think.”

**John, please don't get upset, come here and let me explain. Sherlock says you're angry. I do understand, but please, give me a chance. **

He hit send. "Go back, Sherlock. See what he's up to." Sherlock went without a sound, or a complaint, which was more unusual. 

**0000000**

Greg had dozed off by the time there was a knock on the door. Sherlock had returned, saying that John had gone, but he couldn't follow. He had no idea of the doctor's destination. There had been no answering text. 

"John's here," Sherlock said, looking at Greg's uncertain expression. "I doubt he's here to...well, to hospitalise you. He’s brought Rosie.”

Greg sat up, shrugged, and tried not to look as though he'd spent the last half hour asleep on the sofa. “Of course he has, he said he only had a babysitter until seven.”

Footsteps trudged up the stairs. Greg did not have to be a detective to hear the reluctance in the sound. John appeared at the open door and stared inside.

"I've not been back here since…" 

"I know, and I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry, just tell me what the fuck is going on. How do you know these things? If this was Mycroft I would have said you were using long range listening equipment, or following me with cctv, but you don't have access. I give in. I don't know why or how…" In his arms, Rosie chuckled, reaching for Greg. He caught her small hand in his and kissed it, blew a raspberry into her palm. She giggled, pulling away.

Mycroft smiled. "He's right, of course."

"Shut up, you. No, no, John, not you…"

"Then who? What the fuck is this?"

"Language, John Watson," Mrs Hudson said as she appeared with the tea tray. "In front of Rosie too. I know this must be a trying time for you, but it isn't like you not to hear someone out. Greg is trying to get used to this himself. The least you could do is sit down, have some tea, and listen." Stunned into silence, John sat. 

**000000**

They all sat in silence while Mrs Hudson poured the tea. She handed off a small plastic beaker of milk to Rosie while Mycroft sat primly beside Greg, and Sherlock stared moodily between the window and John. Greg had to keep reminding himself that John couldn't see either of them. It was only when Mrs Hudson remembered her baking and went to check her oven that John broke the silence.

"Why do you get to see them, and not me?" he demanded. 

"Sorry, John. You don't yet have the ability."

“And you do?"

"Never got severe concussion before," Greg said. "Look, John, not sure even I completely understand it all yet. Sherlock wants to communicate, with you, but you're not...not open to it. You've already made your mind up that I'm sick, that there's no such thing as psychics or ghosts or...any of it." There was a silence. "Well, haven't you?"

"I don't know, okay? It's against everything I know…I want to believe in this. So badly it hurts," John ground out. "I want him back, Greg. I cannot fucking lose him again, or...or…"

"Or you'll try to join him? You'd leave Rosie on her own? That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the John Watson you kn…" and just like that, like that day in the park all those years ago, the day Mike Stamford had introduced him to the most infuriating, eccentric, wonderful man he'd ever known, John Watson's voice gave out as emotion rushed in. Rosie turned to her papa and patted his cheek. “It’s okay, baby girl, Daddy’s okay.” 

"John...if I could add anything to help you believe, you must know I would. I mean… this scares me too. If I fail…"

"Fail?" 

"John, that's why I need you on board with this. In two days, it's Halloween. All Souls' Night. 31st October."

"So what?"

"That's the night we have to save Sherlock Holmes." 

**0000000**

"What do you mean, save Sherlock?" John frowned at him, expression darkening. "For the love of God, what is going on, Greg?" Rosie chose that moment to struggle in her father’s grasp, reaching out to the space beside Greg. For a moment, John struggled to keep hold of her. “No, Baby, please…” She wouldn’t be placated and began to fret. 

“Set her down, John. She’ll be fine,” Greg said, trying to get her attention. Rosie would not be distracted however. She pointed to the space beside Greg and babbled back at her father. John finally let her go to toddle with great deliberation past Greg and up to Mycroft. She babbled at him, and reached out to touch. Mycroft smiled down at her. 

John was looking at his daughter rather strangely. “Greg?” he asked, warily. “What’s she doing?”

“Talking to me, I think, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said. John jumped, looking around wildly. 

“What the f…?” 

“Hello, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, reaching to pat Rosie’s curls. "Your daughter is a credit to you, as ever.”

“Apparently, small children and dogs are able to see spirits,” Greg explained. “Looks like Rosie can see Mycroft quite well.” Greg realised John wasn’t listening. He was too transfixed on Mycroft Holmes, sitting transparently beside Greg, and Rosie who was trying to climb onto the spirit’s lap. The focus of John’s eyes told Greg that he too could see the man sitting beside him. 

"Greg...do you...do you s.s.see him…?"

"Yup, that was my reaction too. Yes, I can see him and apparently so can Rosie. He's my spirit guide, John."

"Mycroft bloody Holmes is your spirit guide?"

Greg sighed. "My life is nothing if not complicated, John." He turned to Mycroft. "This also a product of being bonded then? You can make other people see you more easily now?"

"It seems to be. Listen, Dr Watson, all is well. Neither you nor Gregory are going mad. You are also both quite safe, and so is your daughter. My brother, however, is another matter. He requires your help.”

“Sherlock...how?” 

“October 31st is tomorrow. Halloween. All Souls’ Night. The one night of the year when the veil between the world of Spirit and the world of the living is at its thinnest. My brother has lost the connection between his soul and his body. There is a real chance we can guide my brother back to his body, and thus save him, but not without your help. That is why he has not yet woken up from his coma. His body is well enough, but his mind...His spirit is wandering. Allow him to connect with you. Open your mind, and your heart, and let him in.”

“How? I want him back...You have to know that?”

“Of course we do, John. So do we, but...you’re doubting this, even now.”

“Is it worth the risk that none of this is real? Think for a moment. Why would Gregory fabricate any of this? Captain Watson, are you listening to me?" John jumped at the sound of his title. He nodded, shakily.

"Section me afterwards, yeah?" Greg said. "Just give me until midnight on the 31st, that's all I ask. After that, if this doesn't work, you can do whatever you like…"

John looked at Rosie, seemingly at home on the lap of a ghost. He shook his head. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, gaze fixed on his daughter. “I guess it’s no more mad than some of the stuff we used to get up to.”


	8. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we are nearly there. Things are coming to fruition, and confrontation is inevitable...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there, Folks. Sorry it's been so long. Hope you are all staying safe in these uncertain times.

"What's up, Mycroft?" Greg had caught the man looking concerned. 

"I am not sure…"

"You sensing something?"

"I am currently fielding an inordinate number of spirits wanting your help… It doesn't make sense why there would suddenly be so many…" 

"Okay, can't it just be a coincidence?"

"The Universe is rarely so lazy, and if I did not know better I would say it feels like distraction…"

"What, you mean someone is doing it deliberately?"

"I have no idea, but...no, I can't sense coercion, just...desperation."

"How many are just lost, and can't we deal with them as a group?"

"A group?" Mycroft said, incredulously. "Gregory, they are not on a Sunday outing…"

"Nope, but they're still people...why can't you just group them into those who need to know where to go and...you know, we need a spiritual assistant, don't we? You know, like a personal assistant, an Anthea for the Afterlife." He grinned.

"An Anthea for the Afterlife? Seriously, Gregory...this is important…"

"Group them into who needs to cross over, and we'll deal with any other business later…"

Which was how Greg found himself lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, focusing on creating, in his mind's eye, a bridge, a shimmering rainbow bridge, and a shining light on the other side. Mycroft had done his best to separate the petitioners, and there _were_ a lot of them, he thought. Mycroft wasn't wrong there. However, it was easy to address them all together, and guide them over, together. It considerably reduced the workload. He was aware of John watching but there wasn’t a lot to see, as far as John would be concerned. Just Greg lying there, eyes closed, meditating. _Boring._ It amused him that he couldn’t think of that word without hearing Sherlock’s voice. Bringing his focus back on track, he went back to visualising his bridge and the light at the end of it, focusing on all those people who seemed to suddenly need to know where to go. 

"You never cease to astound me," Mycroft said later, as they were relaxing with a cuppa that Mrs Hudson had brought. Well, Greg was relaxing with the cuppa, Mycroft was just...well, Greg wasn't actually sure if he was even relaxing, but he was sitting down, at rest. Even Mrs Hudson had looked impressed.

"What have I done to deserve such an accolade?"

"Gregory, you seem to find easy the things it takes others years to master. Managing a host such as that...it should not have been that simple…"

"Dunno why not. I mean, it's only like dealing with any kind of team. Give 'em directions and let 'em get on with it. You were the one who told me not to overthink this stuff after all." Mycroft had to accede to that. "Now, what did the rest of 'em want?"

“Minor guidance, things I dealt with while you were...guiding the others,” he said, enigmatically. “I also think you should maintain training," Mycroft added gently. 

"Training?"

"Practice your shield, your ward."

"Oh, that. Yes, I'm continuing my training. I keep practicing those exercises you suggested." 

"Good. I will test you, you know…"

"Yeah, fine, but honestly, it's not that hard…"

"If you did but know…" Mycroft said, disbelieving, but he let the matter drop.

"Greg," John asked a while later. "If you're done with...you know...could you…I mean, if it's possible...would you be able to get a message to Mary? I mean...I'd like to just...I dunno….there's something I never knew, and I wanted to ask…"

"Probably, but...I can bring her through, but you won't be able to see her. You’ll have to trust me.”

"But I can see Mycroft…"

"That's down to him. His ability.”

“Might know he’d maintain the air of power and authority in death as well as in life,” John said. “God knows, he’s good at it.”

“Thank you, John. It is nice to know I am appreciated by some.” 

John blinked, and shot a sideways look at the apparition. “Keep forgetting you’re not really here.”

“On the contrary, John, I am here, merely...a little more...insubstantial than you’re used to.”

Greg grinned. “Apparently my proximity makes him more powerful. Mary doesn't have that, although she's got a connection with you." Greg turned his thoughts to Mary. 

"I've been waiting for this," said a familiar voice. "Oh, look at her, the precious darling. She's got my nose, wouldn't you say?" 

*John wanted to see you. He knows he might not be able to…*

"Oo, you're learning too. You’re even stronger than when you brought me through before. I can feel it. So, what does he want, did he tell you?"

"What did you want to ask, John?"

"Oh, is she here? Um...hello, love. Dunno how to ask this so...what did you used to put in the biscuits that Rosie likes?"

Greg burst out laughing. "Seriously?" he asked. 

Mary grinned incredulously. "You get me here because he wants the recipe for my bloody biscuits?" She huffed and looked fondly at John. 

"Sorry, love," John said to thin air. "I've never been able to replicate them...and she…" he took a breath, "she misses her mum making them. I can't do it right." Greg looked at John’s downcast expression and smiled sadly. 

*Mary, can you appear to him?*

*Not my thing, I’m afraid. Mycroft’s the powerful one. Look, tell him you’ll call me through sometimes, if you’re okay with that.*

*More than okay, if you are,* Greg thought. “John,” he said, “Mary says she’ll be happy for me to bring her through to see you both sometimes, if you want, but she can’t appear to you. She’s not strong enough.”

“I understand, but yeah, I’d like that.”

“Hang on,” Mary said. “Let me try something.” She reached out and placed her hand on Greg. “Oo, can feel your power from here. Mycroft was right. Mycroft, mind me borrowing your fella for a moment?”

“Provided no harm befalls him, of course, and provided Gregory is in agreement.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Syphon off a bit of power. If you can do that,” Mary said. 

“No idea. Let’s try.” Greg held his palm uppermost, and Mary covered it with her hand, then she hesitated. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe better to have Mrs H take Rosie out the room for a mo. Might be upsetting to see her mum...you know, because I won’t be able to stay…”

*Not a bad call,* Greg agreed. “John, best send Rosie off with Mrs Hudson. Just for a little while.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, taking Rosie from Mycroft’s lap. “How would you like one of my cakes?” Mrs Hudson swept Rosie into her arms and carried her out. Greg watched them go, and then turned his focus to visualising his power flowing through his arm and into hers. 

“Oo, Christ. That’s power,” she muttered. “Now I won’t be able to hold this for long, even so…”

“Jesus,” John murmured, looking at the space beside Greg. He could see the air coalescing, a form becoming solid in front of his eyes. 

“Mary? Oh, my God, Mary….” She found herself engulfed in John’s arms, standing there enfolded in a hug. 

“Daft head,” Mary said into John’s hair. “For goodness sake...No, listen. I don’t have long. Let Greg help you and bring the soft git back.” She stroked his face. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted, toward the end…”

“No, Mary...stop… I was...I never told you…”

“You stop,” she said gently. “I’m not daft, you know? I know you thought about it, about maybe someone else, someone who would give you something I couldn’t. But you didn’t. And things moved on rather fast. It is no point torturing yourself over what you might have done. Okay? Whatever, I don’t want you going through whatever remains of your life worrying. You forgave me, so my turn to return the favour, okay?” John sniffed and nodded.

“Okay, okay, I can...live with that.”

“Now, you help Greg here, and bring him back. You need each other. Tell him how you feel, and spend the rest of your lives together, bringing up our daughter. Don’t argue! When Sherlock is back, ask the silly git to marry you. You know you should. My Baker Street Boys, together...”

“Damn it all, Mary. Sherlock isn’t interested…”

“I think you’ve got that wrong, but you won’t know unless you ask. Take the opportunity, grab it with both hands, love. You of all people know life’s too short. Now then, feels like I gotta go. Put a teaspoon of cinnamon in your biscuits, and the same of ginger, and don't forget a dash of orange cordial. I’ll see you again, soon, promise…” Her form faded as they watched. 

“I can’t believe...she’s...she’s really okay…that this is..._real_…really real…” John looked bewildered. “This is what happens when...when we…?”

“When we die, apparently yes. Don’t look at me for information though, I’m a novice really.”

John laughed, a bit unnerved. “I don't know what to say…”

“Tell me you’ll come with me tomorrow. We’ll save that daft git and then you propose to him.”

“Straight up, Greg. If we get him back, I’m never letting him out of my sight again.”

**0000000**

“Gregory...I need to talk to you. I need you to be aware of something.”

“What, Myc?” The serious eyes met his and Greg felt himself frown. “What?”

“I need you to be aware of what this might entail.”

“Entail? Okay, but…”

“Are you practicing your shield? Your Ward? The wall I had you construct in your head?”

“Yes, I am. I said I was, Mycroft. Wasn't lying, you know. Pretty good at it now really.”

“Let’s test it then…” Without warning, Mycroft tried to invade his head. The wall buckled slightly but held. “Good. That was...very good,” he said. “Is it always in place?”

“I never think of taking it down.”

“You can conjure it instantly then, if it is not always in place. If it were, then I would not be able to contact you as readily as I do.”

“Maybe it isn’t any good, and you could get in anyway?” 

“No, no, Gregory. I know a wall when I see one. And incidentally feel one too. Yours is there alright, and you can make it appear instantly which is more than most novices can do. Moreover it is strong, very strong. It isn’t the same as it was to begin with…”

“Um...no. Is that alright? I mean…well…”

“How you visualise your wall is your business, Greg. I have to say though, most people would automatically think of a castle wall made of stone…”

“I know, but...mine is a memory, from when I was a lad. A good memory too. It’s my Gran’s garden wall.”

“Why did you choose that one?”

“It was my own fortress, I guess. I always went to Gran’s when I was feeling scared, or confused, or hurt. She was my protector, my confidente, my refuge when I was vulnerable, which was often, but when I was there, I remember her garden in summer, with butterflies and pansies, the short grassy lawn and the roses, and the wall. Red brick it was, warm in summer, all welded together with cream coloured mortar. Solid as stone but more protective, if anything. It’s her, every fight she ever undertook for me, every warm hug, every loving look. She was always proud of me, whatever I did, you know? Never wavered, her faith in me. It’s what keeps me strong. I’ve never let her down, that I know of. Always tried to live up to what she expected of me, which was pride in myself and my achievements, a solid work ethic, getting there under my own auspices, my own hard graft.”

“The fact that it buckled shows your lack of confidence in your own abilities. I am leaning toward a conclusion that for you, thought is stll too simple. For a man used to physical fighting, and the use of guns and fists and batons to protect and ward off attack, simply relying on thought is not substantial enough for you, I suspect.”

“Yeah, well, it does feel a bit...I dunno, phoney, I suppose. Imaginary. What did you do that for anyway?”

“You need to be ready,” Mycroft said soberly. “You are strong, Gregory. Mentally stronger than anything or anyone I have known, but you lack practice, not to mention faith in your own abilities. If you are to help Sherlock, you must help yourself, you must protect yourself as well as him. I have faith in you, but that is not as important as faith in yourself.”

“Against what, though. What are you expecting? Is it to do with your concerns from earlier?”

“One never knows, but I do not expect that merely guiding Sherlock back into his body and mind will be that easy. Enemies are often waiting in the wings. It pays to be prepared. There is something I need to learn. I shall be back forwith.” And with that, Greg was left alone. 

**0000000**

"Gregory?"

"Mmph?" Greg rolled over to find Mycroft sitting on the bed. He stared blearily at the clock. "Jesus, it's 3am…"

"And I am sorry, but tonight is the night, and we have complications…"

"Complications?"

"Yes. Something is...restless. However, I am unable to ascertain who or what. It took me longer than anticipated to find out this much and it is pitifully inadequate. I am sorry to expose you to this, Gregory. I had no idea of the..._complications_ we would be facing."

"Mycroft, this is Sherlock we're talking about. If this had gone down without a hitch, I'd have been very surprised. So...what do we do? How do we prepare?"

"Practice, Gregory. Practice, practice, practice…and hope that my fears are unfounded." 

**0000000**

Greg stared down the dimly lit corridor of the hospital. It was nearly half eleven at night, and the ward was silent. They had fought their way past several groups of revellers on the way, Halloween costumes varying wildly in quality from the professional Goth level to the last minute make-something-black-out-of-a-bin- bag-because-your-mates-asked-you-out level. They'd met everything from Morticia Adams to a five foot nothing werewolf...

So far, the few people they’d met on entering the hospital, Greg had deflected them with his warrant card, but he had no idea how long he could manage to keep their presence unchallenged. They made their way to the ward where Sherlock was being cared for and were ignored until they got to the doors of the unit where Sherlock’s ward was. 

“I’ll do this,” John said, pressing the communication button on the door. 

“Yes?” said a tinny voice from the speaker in the wall.

“Doctor John Watson. I just...I want to see Sherlock, please. I know it’s late but…”

“Not at all, Doctor. You have someone with you?”

“DCI Lestrade. He’s...a friend.”

“Come to the nurse’s station, if you please.” 

The door clicked and John pushed it open. “Come on then. Let’s face the music…”

“It’s late, Doctor Watson.” The pleasant nurse who greeted them was curious but not openly forbidding. 

“I was told that made no difference,” John said defensively, and then looked contrite. “I’m sorry...but I need to see him…Tomorrow...it’s…”

“Yes, I know. Nearly midnight now. Are you planning to stay long?”

“I...maybe, I don’t really know…”

She smiled sympathetically. “Just go on through. I’ll be through to do routine checks in a little while anyway. Would you both like a cup of tea?” 

With a glance at Greg, who shook his head, John declined the offer politely and then lead the way along the ward. Somehow, even knowing Sherlock’s spirit was around, seeing him there on the sheets, skin pale and sallow, was a shock. He was being fed by an IV drip, and the hiss and suck of the breathing apparatus that was keeping him alive was unnerving. The heart monitor was beeping steadily, a counterpoint to the other sounds. 

Greg looked at John. “What now?” he said. 

“The moment I touch any of those machines, the alarms will sound in the nurses’ station. We can’t do this, Greg. It’s murder…”

“Technically, they’ll be doing this anyway. It’s not murder when the doctors do this?”

“I told you, when they do it, it’s done in a controlled way. Monitored. Any distress on the patient’s part is mitigated with drugs. It’s done slowly, in stages, every stage monitored.”

“Somehow, we have..._I have_ to get him back, by midnight tonight…and I don’t mind telling you, I’m not sure how.”

“I am certain you will do your best, Gregory,” Mycroft said from behind them. 

“Jesus, stop doing that! I swear you are going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“You’re in the best place should that unfortunate incident occur, Graham,” Sherlock said, from beside him. 

“Christ, not you as well! Just...stop it, both of you, please. My nerves are already on edge. I have no bloody idea what to do here. We can’t switch anything off, the alarms will sound and we’ll be chucked out before we can do any good, if not arrested for murder...” 

“Just...give me a way back, that’s all I need,” Sherlock said. “I will hopefully wake, and the alarms will sound because of that, not because you’ve switched things off. We may need to time this right…” 

“This thinning of the veil thing,” Greg asked Mycroft. “How long does it last exactly?”

“It begins to fade as soon as it thins, it is never very long. It somehow just… happens.” 

“Oh, great, so you know no more than I do.” 

“I told you, Gregory, do not fret so much. If my brother passes, he will still be safe. I have faith in you.”

*John will be devastated, Mycroft. Not to mention you seemed to be expecting trouble earlier. I have no intention of letting him go without a fight, but I have no idea what to expect.* Greg checked his watch. “Nearly time,” he said aloud. “Minutes to go…” Greg wondered if he would feel something different, if there would be an indication that the veil was thinning. He watched the seconds ticking away, mentally trying to prepare. The second hand of his watch hit midnight. Nothing happened. 

Suddenly, a crawling feeling up his spine had Greg looking alarmed at Mycroft. “What the Fu…”

“Damn!” he heard the spirit say. “Wards, Gregory! Protections! Your Wall, now…” 

Without conscious thought, Greg imagined his wall in his mind’s eye, and was rather alarmed at the sudden crash of something breaking against it. He jumped, rather badly, adrenaline pumping through his system. “What the Holy Fuck was that? I thought you said it was impenetrable.”

“It is.” Mycroft’s voice was calm. “I think one of those entities I told you about is trying to mess with things. Your wall will hold. Illusion is powerful. Believe in yourself.”

His Nana Jenny's voice reached him. "Confidence, Greg. You deserve to have more confidence..." 

The crash came again, and rocks rained down around him, narrowly missing his head. He threw up his arms to protect himself. “Damn it, you said…”

“Believe, Gregory, _hold fast._”

Greg was alarmed when dark laughing eyes peered at him from somewhere… He cried out, surprised, and looked wildly around for Mycroft and Sherlock, but saw no one. John had vanished. In fact the hospital room had completely disappeared, and he was standing, alone, on a plain, grassy and featureless, his wall in ruins beside him, stones scattered everywhere… and Moriarty grinning at him from less than twelve feet away….

The man smiled, nastily. “Did you miss me…?”


	9. The Final Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end, but whose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me six months, but here it is, the final chapter...

“What the Fuck are you doing here?” Greg demanded, watching the man warily. 

“Oh, you know, anything to throw the cat among the pigeons. Since I died, it’s been soooo boring...I’m sure you know how it is. With Sherlock still alive...well, where’s the fun in that?”

“You utter bastard,” Greg spat. “You want to stop me from bringing him back.”

“I need a frieeeend, Inspector,” the man whined, “and Sherlock is the best. Don’t worry, it’s only a matter of time. When he arrives here, dead as a doornail, I’ll even let you go…”

“No. Not on your life,” Greg said firmly. “I am not letting you get away with this, you Tosser.” 

“Sorry, Greggles, but your wall is _gone,” _Moriarty snarled. “I'm not the useless bastard around here, and I don't want to worry you, but _I'm not alive," _he snarled lunging forward, directly into Greg’s personal space. Greg took an involuntary step away, and Moriarty giggled. "Do I scare you?” he asked, mockingly. “Well, there’s nothing you can do to keep me out!" He skipped a little dance all around Greg where he stood, raging silently, despairing as to what to do. 

_How could my wall have come down so fast? I would have felt it, I would have known… Wouldn’t I? Mycroft...where are you? So damned alone…_

They were suddenly back in the hospital room. There was no sign of Mycroft, and John was doubled over, lying across Sherlock's still form, sobbing his heart out. "Oh, God, no…" Greg groaned. The machines were showing no activity, all showed flatlines and a continuous alarm sounded somewhere. "You _utter_ bastard…" Greg raged. They were too late. Moriarty was laughing, manically. Greg looked back at Sherlock's still form, and reached for him in his mind, but there was nothing. He fought down panic. He tried to think of Mycroft but again, there was nothing. He felt suddenly very empty, and very cold…

"It's all been a dream, Greggy boy," Moriarty purred in his ear. Greg shuddered, feeling sick. "Nothing more than PTSD. You aren't psychic! You're going mad, like you thought," Moriarty crowed. "It's over. He's dead now, and you'll be sectioned. It's all hallu-cin-ations…" he trilled crazily. Despairing, Greg crumpled to his knees, hands over his face, unable to stop the tears of frustration and sadness spilling over… _Not strong enough...I knew it...let them down...I’m nothing..._

_*Believe, hold fast…*_

Greg heard Mycroft’s voice in his head. _Is it Mycroft? Is he really there? Or is it just my imagination? Jesus, what now?_ He closed his eyes, tried to focus. 

_*Have confidence in yourself, my love…*_

_Nana Jenny? _Her voice was clear in his mind. _What’s going on? _Panic receded, and Greg took a deep breath. _What would that bastard do to stop me helping Sherlock? _Greg tried to concentrate, but focusing was so hard. 

_*Believe, hold fast…*_

What was it Mycroft had said?_ Your wall will hold, illusions are powerful...illusions are powerful...illusions...illusions...illu… Wait. _Something wasn’t right. He was missing something obvious… _Illusion. Bingo! Illusion. That’s it, _Greg thought. 

He looked up, but instead of defeat in his adversary's eyes, Moriarty saw defiance. Greg struggled to stand up, but his eyes were blazing, anger bleeding through his panic, burning it away in the wake of blinding fury. "Oi! You utter prick,” he growled. “You forgot one thing. I’ve never trusted anything you say, and I shouldn’t be doing so now. You're a liar, and I know you're lying right now. _This_," and he gestured to the room, “is _not_ real,” he declared, seeing it begin to fade from around them. They were back to standing in the field. “And _that,_” he said, pointing to the rubble of his ‘wall’ surrounding them, “is _not_ my wall! You have no idea what form my wall takes. You just guessed at it. My wall isn’t built of stone, and it never came down. Somehow, you’re making me see these lies…” Concentrating, he ignored the ruins of his wall, ignored the small man standing malevolently in front of him. "Stop. Doing. This. NOW!" Anger flared. Blinding white light flashed from somewhere. He heard a shrill scream, and then everything began to dissolve around him. Colours ran and bled into each other, his surroundings melted, the Dali abstract dissolved away like mist in the sunrise to give way to a Monet garden...

Triumphantly, Greg thought of his wall, of Nana Jenny’s garden, its safety and colour and scent. He thought of Mycroft, Sherlock, and John…and love, pure and simple. "Forgot one thing, you Tosser,” he snarled to the empty air. “Whoever you are. Love always beats the dark. Now bugger off! And when you’ve buggered off as far as you can, bugger off some more..." 

Relief washed through him. He was standing in a very different place, a sun-warmed wall of old brick surrounding him, impossibly high, solid, dependable. It’s old bricks were decorated with tiny sprigs of stonecrop, bright green mosses, and the curled spears of Hart’s Tongue fern. Around him, in the herbaceous border, sunny yellow pom pom chrysanthemums vied for space with the spears of deep blue delphinium and purple foxglove. Deep dark red roses nodded their velvet heads, the air around them heavy with perfume, shy pansies peeking out beneath them. A peach tree clung to the wall, heavy with sweet velvet-skinned fruits. Greg knew they would taste gorgeous if he could eat one. Between the roses, peonies with heads like pink frilly petticoats bobbed in a summer breeze. Sherlock was standing before him. "I'm lost, Greg,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Safe,” Greg reassured him. He took a breath of warm air, redolent with the scent of summer, and their eyes met. “Don’t worry, lad. I won’t let you fall.”

“It’s all fine, Greg. You always see me right, you and John both.” 

Greg smiled and reached out a hand. “Come on, Sunshine. Time to go home.”

Sherlock reached, fitting his hand into the protective curve of Greg's fingers. The next second, they were back in the hospital ward, Mycroft and John standing as they had left them, but seemingly frozen in time. "There you go," Greg said, and bending over, he lifted Sherlock's hand off the bed, and laced his fingers with those of his spirit. Then he took John’s hand, and placed it on top. “Your connection’s right here, son,” he said affectionately. There was an intake of breath, and then time seemed to rush back in all at once, the machines started beeping frantically, John looked around wildly, and Sherlock… 

The next second, the doors banged open and an emergency response team flooded in, shoving both himself and John out of the way. They were ushered out, but not before Greg's eyes had met Sherlock's, open and alive, and something unspoken had passed between them.

**0000000**

They spent an anxious half hour in a waiting room, with Mycroft curiously absent. The door opened, admitting a young harried-looking man with a stethoscope wrapped around his neck. 

"I'm Doctor Cochrane," he said. "Doctor Watson?" John nodded, unable to speak. "He's asking for you." John exchanged a glance with Greg. 

"Come with me," he said, blindly reaching for Greg's hand. John faced Cochrane. "We're ready…" 

"Follow me. You must understand, he's very weak…Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle. His vital signs are stable, but his muscle mass is vastly reduced. He's breathing on his own, but...look, Doctor, I don't have to tell you, even now his survival is...in the balance." John nodded. 

"Understood," he said gently. "Will you give us some time alone, just in case this is the last we get?"

"Of course, but...try not to let him exhaust himself further. Call us immediately if there's a change." 

**0000000**

"Hello, Sherlock," John said softly.

"I'm weak, John, but you don't have to whisper. I'll be fine." 

"Sherlock… there's still a chance your heart could fail, given how weak you are."

"Still think I might die?"

"I don't know, so just...don't tempt fate, yeah?"

Sherlock's resulting eye roll was almost audible. "And you, Graham. You think I'm going to die?" 

"No, Sunshine, I don’t, but just for once in your life, though, listen to the doc. Take it easy. I'll tell your brother you made it." 

"My brother? Mycroft is dead, Greg. I know that much…what?"

"You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

“A garden, maybe? Red brick wall, roses and peonies?” Sherlock was looking at him with something like wonder in his gaze. "Maybe a tale for another time, son. When you're out of danger. Just...do as you’re told for now.” 

“I’ll hold you to that, I won’t forget…”

Greg grinned. “I know, Sunshine. I know.” 

"What happened?" Mycroft enquired as they stood in the corridor outside Sherlock's room, giving Sherlock and John some privacy. Greg was careful not to speak aloud.

*You don't know?* he thought, *Where did you go anyway?*

“There was a..._disturbance_, which is now settled, but beyond the fact that something happened, I do not know the details. It is very frustrating.” As best he could, Greg described the events of the evening. *Moriarty?*

*Or an entity using his face* Greg suggested. *However, he tried to make me think he’d got into my head, and he hadn’t at all. If he had, he’d have known what my wall really looked like.*

*Most likely it was what was left of him. He knew enough to play on your fears. That explains the ruckus that I had to deal with afterwards.*

*Ruckus?*

“A disturbance in the Force,* Mycroft said with a smile. *Perhaps the best analogy I can give you.*

Greg smothered a chuckle, and nodded. *Perfectly understandable, and there’s me thinking you weren’t into popular culture. So you sorted it?* 

*I did. I am only annoyed with myself that I did not protect you from it.*

*Well, I don’t happen to think you needed to. After all, I’m still here and so is Sherlock. Will he be alright, do you think?*

*That, I have to say, is still somewhat in the lap of the gods, but...I am hopeful. Whatever happens, you did it, Greg, and you overcame an attack of mammoth proportions. Well done indeed.*

*Mammoth proportions, eh?”

Mycroft turned to face him. *You really have no idea how powerful you are, do you?*

*I have a feeling we’ve all the time in the world for you to show me.* 

Mycroft smiled at that, and said no more.

**Epilogue**

**Four months later**

“Sherlock! Slow down!” Greg yelled, running as fast as his legs would allow. “Not again… Sherlock! Absolutely do not go in without back-up, you Prat!” Greg came to a halt, chest heaving. He’d lost sight of the younger man, who had taken off at a run again, coat billowing behind him. Greg closed his eyes in despair. Sherlock would run blindly into trouble yet again… 

*Sherlock. Not again,” he groaned. “Not after last time.”

“I see my brother is not listening again.” Mycroft was standing beside him, a frown on his face.

“Too bloody right. Look, would you scope ahead, tell me what’s happening? Where they are…”

“I shall try. May I _borrow_ your power again?”

“No need to ask.” Mycroft nodded his thanks and suddenly, Greg felt a _pull_…

*Five men, all armed,* came the message in his head. *I have sent Sherlock back to you. My brother is _very_ strong willed, but I managed to deflect him. Our filial connection helps a great deal, and rather than stop him, I've sent him around in a circle. When he gets back to you, I advise you to restrain him. You are not yet close enough for them to have heard you but I advise caution nevertheless. I may be able to distract them sufficiently to give your back-up more time to arrive.*

Sherlock appeared from where they had come, running back toward him seemingly in a daze. On seeing Greg he stopped, blinking, brows drawn down in consternation.

“What am I doing here?” he asked. Blood was dripping down from a cut on his eyebrow.

“Not getting yourself killed, that’s what. What have you done to yourself? You’re bleeding.”

“Am I? Oh, I really am.…” Sherlock looked confused for a moment. “Oh, yes...I clouted my face on a piece of wood that was sticking out, that’s all.”

Greg moved to intercept him. “Look, you utter cock, there are five armed men in that building, and you were about to run in there _and die_. You have to stop being such an arse to John. Fuck’s sake, man. You nearly died once already. A scant few months ago and you were still in a coma. Don’t tempt fate again like that…”

“Greg...something strange is going on. I saw…” Sherlock shook himself. “No, I couldn’t have done…”

“Save it. They aren’t going anywhere,” Greg jerked his thumb toward the warehouse, “but we need to move. I’ve got SCO19 incoming any minute. Come on…”

“My brother!” Sherlock blurted, just as John panted up from behind them. “I saw my brother…”

“There you are," John gasped, trotting up behind them. "Fuck me, Sherlock, not again. You’re bleeding, what have you done this time? I swear...this has got to stop,” he muttered, trying to examine the damage. “I am not doing this again. I can’t sit vigil at your bedside again. You can stop this, right now," he muttered angrily, waving a finger in Sherlock's face. "This is the last time you dash off without me, Sherlock, you understand me?” John’s anger was fierce, but fright was playing a large part of it. 

“John…”

“I’ll leave. For good this time.” John was stiff with anger. Greg watched something appear in Sherlock’s eyes. Then he nodded, once. 

“John…” Greg risked laying a hand on his shoulder. “John, time and place, mate,” he said quietly, weathering the angry glare that came his way. “Relax, we’ve got back-up on the way, and Sherlock is here, and he’s safe, so we can deal with this when we get back. We need to...” 

“Greg! Retire to a safe distance, now!” Mycroft was back with them, his tone urgent and worried. “Your friends in there are about to send someone outside to scout around. They will see you in less than a minute if you do not retreat behind that container over there…”

“Come on, move! They’re sending a guard out,” Greg barked. “Don’t ask questions, just come _on_!” Greg quickly bundled both Sherlock and John, with an injunction to stay down and stay quiet, behind the container over by the wharfside. Moments later, they could hear voices as someone was sent outside to check on the perimeter of the warehouse, someone who walked right by where they had been standing moments before. 

“ARMED POLICE!” came the sudden shout. “PUT THE GUN DOWN, NOW!”

“PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN AND RAISE YOUR HANDS. GET DOWN ON THE GROUND, GET DOWN ON THE GROUND, NOW!” 

“Looks like the cavalry have arrived,” Greg murmured, as the area was suddenly flooded with men in tactical gear, carrying assault rifles. John was doing his best to see to Sherlock’s injury, pulling stuff out of his pockets. Lights were flicked on to bathe the area in daylight-strength illumination, and more men were storming the building. Sporadic gunfire rattled through the structure, there was a muffled whump and smoke poured out. Their enemy came stumbling out, blinded by teargas and choking for breath…. Greg got his ID out just in time.

“HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEADS, NOW. IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!” Guns and lights were levelled at them. Blinded, Greg waved his ID which was snatched off him and read quickly. 

“DCI Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard,” he said. “These men are with me.” A torch was shone in his face as his picture was compared. 

“Chief Inspector, sir, come with us please. There’s an ambulance waiting if you need it.” They were escorted to safety quickly, shepherded to a waiting car. Dimmock was waiting for them there. 

“So you found their base then?” he said.

“Took a while, but Sherlock’s back on the job, eh, lad?” Sherlock nodded, eyes filled with curiosity, but he held his peace. John dragged him off to the waiting ambulance, insisting his injury get proper attention. 

”Christ, I’m tired.” Greg was leaning against the ambulance, blue lights strobing across the rain-slick concrete beneath his feet. *Thanks for your help, love,* he thought.

“A pleasure, as always. I seem to be doing a lot to keep you safe recently…”

*Your little brother is being a pest again, that’s why.*

“When is he not?”

*He has to change, or he’ll lose John. The man’s had enough.*

“He’s a soldier, Gregory.”

*Mycroft, last time nearly broke him, and he has Rosie to think about. There are less dangerous ways of occupying your mind and Sherlock needs to find them and fast.*

“Greg, we’re about ready to go…” John called. 

“Sure, I’ll just be a minute.” Greg levered himself away from the ambulance and stood for a moment, looking at the buildings looming out of the early morning mist. He had been up all night. He sighed heavily. He needed to be back at work in a few hours. He thought about calling in sick, deciding to take the day off.

“They seem to have settled their differences,” Mycroft observed. “Rather quickly, as it happens.”

*I don’t think they have, but John will want to have this conversation at home. After all, they’re supposed to be getting married next month.*

“Do you think my brother will calm down? After all, he loves his London battlefield.”

*I think he’ll have to, because John means it this time.* Greg walked to the wharfside, staring out across the churning Thames water. It looked about as settled as his mind. 

“You told Sherlock about me,” Mycroft commented.

“I am not sure he completely believed me, or John for that matter. Despite you diverting him just now—neatly done, by the way—he’s still doubting his senses. Bit like Baskerville. He’ll search for any conclusion bar the one that’s in front of his face. He likes things to be complicated puzzles.”

Mycroft smiled. “The intellectual equivalent of the man standing beside me,” he said. “Not that you are not intellectual, but you like things to be physical, you like to feel, not simply think, otherwise you doubt the reality. Sherlock likes mental puzzles, and he cannot believe something could be as simple as it is.” Mycroft regarded the river for a moment, then he looked up. “Gregory, I do believe we should be getting back. John and Sherlock should be getting home, and so should you.”

Greg stretched his back with a soft groan. “Coming,” he muttered, resentfully, and followed Mycroft to the car. 

**0000000**

On the way back to Baker Street, Greg played chauffeur while the other two rode in the back, bickering. John was angry and Sherlock was being stubborn, as usual.

“Hey, don’t make me come back there,” Greg snapped. “Settle this like grown-ups, or so help me, I am making you walk home. I’m already knackered and unless you want to risk me wrapping my car around a tree, you’ll quit with the domestic you’re currently engaged in and shut the hell up! Or I’ll divert to the nearest police station and get them to lock you up for the rest of the day, together...”

“Domestic?” Sherlock sneered.

“Grown-ups?” John said simultaneously. Three pairs of eyes met briefly in the driving mirror. Before he turned his attention back to the road, Greg saw his passengers exchange a single meaningful glance, and he smiled. _Getting back to normal, _he thought. _Whatever normal is with those two..._

Later, lying in the semi-darkness in his bed in his new flat, Greg was conscious of Mycroft’s presence beside him. He turned to face the man who lay on the covers behind him.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked. 

“Just hoping they’ll be okay.”

“I am sure they will. My brother has agreed not to endanger himself so much any more. I think we can trust him to keep his word. If he can ever completely believe in your new abilities, I believe you and he will find an accord in your future investigations.”

“I ask the murder victim who did it and then he has to prove it.” 

Mycroft smiled. “I think he is too invested in his new family to risk it all again. He certainly seemed far more contrite tonight than I have ever seen him before.”

“Hope so.” Greg went quiet. 

“You are thinking again.”

“I know...it’s just...I was wondering about retirement myself. I mean, I’m a DCI now. Pension would be enough, and this place is mortgage and rent free, thanks to you. I’ve plenty to keep me occupied; plenty of spirits who need help, redecorating this place to make it feel like a home, minding Rosie on a semi-regular basis, not to mention you, Gorgeous. I’ve got places I want to see, and I can share them with you.”

“You are content like this? Would you be content to live alone, here?”

“But I’m not alone, am I? I have you, and I have my new skills, and...the odd visitor now and again. Everything I could want really. Might just be good not to have to turn into work every day as well.”

“As long as it is what you want, Gregory. I can see the merits to it. If I had not met my end as I did, I dare say I would have been thinking along the same lines right now.” He paused, eyes searching Greg’s. “I know we have each other, but I am not perhaps as corporeal a lover as you might wish for…I mean, if you ever fell for Archie’s charms…” There was a wry note to Mycroft’s voice.

“Like that would ever happen, but I know what you’re trying to say. Doubt I’d ever need it, to be honest. What we have, it’s amazing, but I get your drift. If I ever find anyone who I might...well, like enough, I’ll tell you. What’s the psychic equivalent of a sock on the doorknob?” 

Mycroft chuckled. “I have no idea. Perhaps I might want to join in, or play the voyeur? Had you considered that?”

“Mycroft Holmes, I am shocked.”

“That I highly doubt,” Mycroft said fondly. “Actually the internet is full of sites dedicated to people who think they’ve had sex with a ghost.”

“Is it? Ghost sex is a thing then?”

“It even has a name. Spectrophilia. You are a Spectrophiliac, Gregory.” Greg laughed, delighted.

“As long as that’s not an arrestable offence.”

“You never know,” Mycroft added, “you might find yourself a soulmate on such a site…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Greg said, scandalised. “They’re probably rife with bored housewives and obsessive fantasists. I highly doubt any of them actually have had sex with a spirit.”

Mycroft’s smile widened into a grin, then it faltered. “Oh...Greg...I am sorry, but there’s someone on the line for you…” It was now their code for someone needing help.

“What, now?”

“Apologies. Shall I put them off?”

“Can it wait?” There was a short silence. 

“Appears not. This one just died in rather traumatic circumstances, not long ago. She was drawn to our light....”

“We have a light?”

“Rather a beacon to those in the spirit world, I’m afraid.”

“Okay then.” Greg sighed and levered himself out of bed and grabbed a robe. “Do I need to be a policeman, or a counselor?”

“Counselor. The police are apparently _all over it,_ in her words. She requires a guide right now. She is rather agitated, poor thing. There may be leg work involved later…"

“Okay then. Let me make some tea, and then let’s do this in the living room.” He walked out to the kitchen, flicked the light on and then filled the kettle, dragging tea things down as it boiled. When he entered the living room, Mycroft was seated comfortably on the sofa with a young woman sitting primly nearby. 

“Ah, Greg,” Mycroft said. “This is Beth.”

“Hi, Beth,” Greg said, seating himself beside Mycroft. _This is my life now, _he thought, _still solving problems, albeit for the dead._ He sipped his tea, settled back, and smiled his winning reassuring grin, realising that, actually, there was nowhere he could think of that he would rather be right now. 

“So...Beth…,” he began, “in your own time, love. Tell us what the problem is...”

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, thank you one and all for your comments and kudos.


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